


Boy Meets Boy

by BroodingSoul



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:00:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1620068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroodingSoul/pseuds/BroodingSoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Against his better judgment, Derek lets his sister Laura convince him to sign up for a gay dating show called "Boy Meets Boy."  The winner gets $100,000 and Derek's hand in marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Vendelin, aprettysmalldose, and Hannah for their beta work!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Laura meet with the producers of "Boy Meets Boy".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story: I wrote all the dialogue for Chapter 1 on my iPod in between sets at the gym.

“I still don’t know why I’m even considering this,” Derek huffs.  He narrows his eyes at his sister, sitting in the chair next to him.

Laura rolls her eyes.  “Derek, it’s been forever since you’ve been on a date.  When was the last time, do you even remember?”

“A couple months ago.”

“Yeah, okay,” Laura retorts.  “A couple months ago, it was two years since your last real date.”

Derek huffs again and crosses his arms across his chest.  “Exactly.  So it makes no sense to put me on a dating show, let alone one that’s supposed to end with me proposing to someone.  I don’t remember what it’s like to go on a date, it’ll be awkward and weird.”  He attempts to dismiss the topic with a wave of his hand.  It does nothing to deter Laura, nor does it cause the two television producers sitting across the table to disappear.

“That’s why we picked you, man!” says the male producer, Finstock.  His eyes are wide, practically bug-eyed.  “You’re awkward, but you’re hot,” he continues.  “It’s endearing.  Audiences will relate to you, but they’ll also want to fuck you, you know what I mean?”

Lydia, the more composed of the two producers, casts a tired side-eye at Finstock before addressing Derek.  “Plus,” she says, tucking a lock of red hair behind her ear, “it’s the first 100% gay dating show on basic cable in America.”

“At least, one where all the contestants are actually gay,” Finstock grumbles.

“In addition to being awkward and attractive, you’re also a genuinely nice person,” Lydia explains, earning a derisive snort from Laura.  Derek glares at her as Lydia continues, “and an everyday sort of guy.  The audience will root for you to find love.”

At this, Finstock lights up, his hands practically spasming.  “Meaning they’ll tune in to watch the show in millions.  You’re ratings gold, baby!”  Finstock drums the table with his hands loudly until Lydia clears her throat and gives him a pointed look.

“You see?” Laura turns to Derek.  “They break some ground and gain some cred.  In the meantime, you get some dates, maybe meet someone nice, and settle down.”

“I am settled down,” Derek replies gruffly, nearing a pout.

“With someone else,” Laura stresses.  “Look, Derek, I know you think you’re fine all by yourself, but let’s be honest.  As nice as these people think you are, you actually seem kind of like a scary loner freak—“

“Who passed all the psychological tests we administer to our contestants,” Lydia quickly interjects.

“A scary loner freak,” Laura repeats.  “You’re basically a hermit.  I know you’ve had some rocky relationships in the past, okay?”  At this, Derek just grunts.  “Before you came out, there was that psycho Kate chick you found out was into some crazy kink I don’t even want to remember—“

“Taser,” Derek supplies.

Finstock’s entire body reacts to this.  “What the hell?”  He scrambles at the thick manila folder resting on the table in front of him and starts flipping through pages.  “I did not read that in the dossier.  That’s some fucked up shit, man, I like it.”

Laura eyes Finstock with a look of disbelief and disgust before turning back to Derek.  “And then there was Jennifer and you basically felt like she was taking advantage of you.  And since you came out, you haven’t had anything close to a successful relationship.  Just dates here and there.”

“What about Matt?” Derek challenges.

“You’re using Matt as a barometer for successful relationships?  You dated him for a month and let’s be honest, he wasn’t really all there in the head and that’s in addition to the weird obsession he had with lizards.  And now you’ve had this two-year dating drought--”

“Any sex in that drought,” Finstock asks, “or has everything been dry as a bone?”  He snarfles at his own pun.

“Finstock,” Lydia warns, and he begrudgingly shuts his mouth.

Laura continues.  “Look, I’m just saying…you’ve not had a lot of luck, relationship-wise.”  She sighs and the look in her eyes softens as she reaches out and takes Derek’s hand.  “You do want a relationship, don’t you?  Don’t you want someone you can be with?  Someone who can share all those broody silences you’re so fond of?”

“I guess.”  Derek reads a mix of tenderness and worry in Laura’s eyes.  Between that and the way she practically grips his hand with earnest desperation, he finally relents.  “Fine, I’ll do it.”

“Hot damn!” Finstock yells, slapping at the table.

Even Lydia allows a small smile.  “Great,” she says calmly.  “We’ll set up a meeting with legal so that you can sign all the contracts you need to.”  Derek’s eyebrows raise questioningly.  “Don’t worry, it’s standard stuff, mostly for your safety and concern than for us.  Do you have representation?”

“I’m his representation,” Laura answers.

“You’re an agent?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

Finstock groans.  “Fuck, lawyers always try to fuck with the contracts,” he complains.  Lydia shoots him a murderous look.  “But, y’know, we appreciate that you’re looking out for your brother,” he amends.  “Very sisterly.  Very nice.”

Lydia shakes her head and takes a quick breath before turning to Derek with a smile.  “Now, Derek, in the spirit of complete transparency, you’ll need to know about one of the clauses in the contract.”

“What’s that?” Derek asks warily.  Lydia’s smile tightens.

“Pursuant to the reality of the show, the season must end in a proposal.  While we hope that this endeavor is romantically beneficial for you, we’re not so full of hubris to think that you will actually meet your life partner on this show.  Basically, we’re not trying to force your hand into marriage.”  Lydia pauses briefly.  “However, for the purposes of the success of the show and its post-season publicity, we require that even if you and the person to whom you propose choose to call off your relationships, that you do it no sooner than six months after the airing of the final episode of the season.”

Derek’s eyes narrow.  He’s never actually watched a reality dating show, but he never had any doubt that there were always some sort of strings being pulled.  “What if I don’t actually meet someone I want to date, let alone ask to marry me?” he asks.

“That’s where we come in, D-Money,” Finstock answers.  “May I call you D-Money?”

“No.”  Next to him, Laura snorts.  If Finstock notices, he doesn’t pay any attention.

“Alright.  Not only are we your producers, D-Hizzle,” at this, Derek rolls his eyes as Finstock continues, “we’re also your advisors.  Your confidants.  Your dating Yodas.  Making decisions, help you with,  we will.”

Lydia closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath that no one can hear.  After a second she opens her eyes and smiles tightly.  “What my colleague is trying to say, Derek, is that Finstock and I will consult with you on the contestants.  While ideally you will make choices on the show based on your own personal preferences, we understand that there is always the chance that you won’t connect with any of the men we select for you.  Should such a case arise, we will assist you in make your selection decisions.”  She offers up that tight smile again.

“Meaning that you’ll help Derek pick whichever contestants make for the best ratings,” Laura helpfully translates.

“That statement is not entirely inaccurate.”

Finstock snorts.  “What my college is trying to say, Laura, is bingo.”  Lydia’s glare shoots daggers at Finstock.

Derek sighs and tries not to sound completely exasperated.  “So what you’re saying is, I could completely waste six weeks of my life filming this and come out with nothing on the other side?”

“Yes,” Finstock replies bluntly, and Derek has to at least give Finstock credit for answering honestly.  “But you’ll also get a six-figure salary out of it.”

“Standard compensation for our bachelors,” Lydia adds.  “Though we try not to use the b-word.  Copyright infringement and all that.”  She glances at Laura.  “You understand.”  Laura nods back.

“I don’t actually need the money,” Derek protests.  “Our parents left us a pretty big estate when they died.”

“Then you can donate it to a wolf reserve or something,” Laura tells him dismissively.  “One of those animal causes you’re always so fired up about.”  All Derek can do is glare at her, resigned.

“Fine,” he grunts.

“Alright then,” Lydia says after a short pause.  “We’ll have contracts drawn up and sent over to you so that you can read them over before your meeting with legal, which we will also set up.”  Laura nods.  “Do you have any other questions?” Lydia asks.

“How do you pick the contestants?” Derek wonders.

Finstock rubs his hands together lasciviously.  “Ah ha ha, there we go, wanting to know where we’re going to find that tail.”

Derek swears he actually sees murder flash in Lydia’s eyes.  “Finstock,” she grits through clenched teeth, “why don’t you go ahead and get ahold of legal and get the ball rolling on that contract?”

“But my boy D-Hizzle here—“

“Finstock.  Now.”  Finstock’s eyes bug out, but Lydia just stares at him calmly until he backs down and leaves the room, grumbling.  Once he’s out of the room, Lydia takes a deep breath and releases it.  “I apologize for Finstock.  He’s not much of a people person in the sense that he’s not much of a person, but as far as ideas and the whole picture go, he’s the best.”

“I assumed he was good for something, otherwise he wouldn’t be on payroll,” Laura mused.

“Oh Ms. Hale,” Lydia says somewhat condescendingly.  “You’d be surprised just how many people are on our payroll that aren’t actually good for anything.”  She turns to Derek.  “Anyway, to answer your questions, we’ll put out standard casting calls in larger metropolitan areas; Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York are our big ones, obviously, but we’ve also had luck with Miami, as well as Dallas-Forth Worth.”

“But how do you pick the contestants,” Derek repeats.

“Well, we try to look for people who are genuine, relatable, and easy to get along with.  This isn’t like The Real World,” Lydia laughs.  “I mean, of course some drama can be entertaining, but we’re not trying to create total polar groups.  And obviously, they’ll be subject to the same kind of background checks you also underwent.”

“That sounds so promising,” Derek mutters sarcastically.  “I feel like I’m being set up for an arranged marriage.”  He turns to Laura.  “What’s my dowry, do you know?  How many cows am I worth?”

“Derek…” Laura warns, her voice the kind of menacing that only older sisters can get away with.

“I understand your trepidation, Derek,” Lydia says.  She hesitates, then her countenance changes and she suddenly seems less like a producer and more like a real person.  “Listen, think of it this way:  you get to spend six weeks in a beautiful, fully-furnished house with a pool and a hot tub, with some very attractive men, enjoy a wide variety of activities you might normally not have time for, none of which you have to pay for, by the way, and some of which you might not even have known you wanted to do.  You might find the love of your life and, even if you don’t, you’ll make some bank.”

Lydia levels her gaze at Derek, and Derek knows he has no way out.  He closes his eyes, exhales, and just nods.  Next to him, Laura gives a squeal of pleasure.  Lydia smiles.

“Fantastic.  Now, don’t worry about things like contracts and the candidate selection process.  Just go home and prepare for an experience you’ll never forget, and in eight weeks we’ll start filming.”  Laura grabs her purse, and she and Derek stand to leave.  As they turn away, Lydia clears her throat.  “Oh, and since Finstock isn’t here, I guess I’ll have to handle this unsavory topic myself.”

Derek turns back, his voice tentative.  “Yes?”

“You have a beautiful body, Derek.”  Lydia’s eyes travel up and down the length of Derek’s torso, clad in a thin black cotton t-shirt.  He came to this meeting from the gym, so his arms seem especially large at the moment.  “Let’s make sure it stays that way,” Lydia continues.  “We have a pool and hot tub at the house for a reason.”

Derek’s mouth sets in a straight line and all he can do is nod.  Lydia flashes a toothy smile. Derek and Laura turn and walk out the door.  “And to think, she’s the nice one,” Laura says, just loudly enough for Lydia to hear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek moves into the "Boy Meets Boy" house. Mansion. It's a mansion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek/Erica is probably one of my favorite friend pairings ever.

Eight weeks later, Derek moves into the “Boy Meets Boy” house.  He shows up a day before the contestants so that he can unpack, settle in, and learn the lay of the house.

Everything is huge.  The circular foyer alone seems like it’s the size of his entire apartment, with a winding staircase that would put anything from Beauty and the Beast to shame.  The kitchen actually makes Derek ache.  He’s always had a proclivity for cooking and he hopes he gets the chance to put the kitchen to use.

The master bedroom seems excessively large, until Derek realizes that there needs to be room for the camera crew to move around.  The bed is king-sized, the headboard a dark wood; if Derek had to hazard a guess, he’d say it was mahogany.  There’s a walk-in closet that seems cavernous.  Derek unpacks his clothes—two suitcases worth—and the amount of clothes he packed seems pitifully miniscule in the wide expanse.

Just off the bedroom is the master bathroom.  Everything is gleaming marble and porcelain.  It features a shower with dual showerheads and a bathtub with jet nozzles that looks like it could fit four.  Derek realizes it’s designed for group bathing encounters, and he wonders once again why he agreed to do this. 

Cameras are mounted in each of the ceiling corners in both the bathroom and the bedroom.  Derek sighs, already feeling the total loss of privacy.

Derek sees a binder lying on the bed and walks over to check it out.  It’s labeled “Derek’s Boy Meets Boy Personal Look Book.”  Derek closes his eyes and shakes his head, the flips the book open.  There’s a note on the inside from Lydia.

Derek:  Flip through here and get to know the contestants before they arrive.  It’ll help to know who’s who before they arrive.  You don’t need to memorize everything, but maybe just be able to put names to faces.  Get excited!  -Lydia.  PS: There’s a gym in the basement.

Derek flips through the book, taking in names and faces.  It’s pretty thin; there are only twelve contestants.  Boy Meets Boy is a new show the network is taking a risk on, so everything is pretty bare bones.  However, Derek remembers Lydia mentioning that having fewer contestants will help him to get to know them better, which will help heighten the drama when it comes time to make cuts.

Anything for the ratings.

Derek is a little too anxious to actually retain any information from the look book, but he does notice there’s pair of twins in the mix.  He can only imagine the kind of shenanigans Finstock expects to come out of that.  All of the guys look vaguely washed out in their pictures, probably a result of bad lighting and an inexperienced photographer.

Derek tosses the binder aside and stretches.  He figures he’ll hit the gym before bed, not because Lydia suggested it, but because it’s his favorite way to deal with nervous energy.  Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.

\---

It’s 8:00 the next morning when he’s awoken by a knock at his bedroom door.

“Mr. Hale?” a female voice calls out.

Derek rubs his sleepy eyes and stretches underneath the covers before climbing out of bed and shuffling toward the door.  He opens it to find a woman with dirty-blonde hair and glasses, clad in jeans and a plaid button-up over a white t-shirt, standing there.  She’s looking at a clipboard in her hands.

“Hi, Mr. Hale, I’m Erica Reyes, your PA,” the woman—Erica—says.  “Sorry to wake you up so early, I just needed to tell you that—“ she glances up, finally looking at Derek, “—you’re only wearing underwear.”  A blush creeps up her face as she quickly and pointedly looks back at her clipboard.

Derek looks down and realizes he’s only wearing the boxer briefs he wore to bed, having forgotten to throw on pants before answering the door.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, and shuts the door in her face.  He picks up the jeans he wore the day before and pulls them on quickly, donning a shirt as well.  He re-opens the door.  In the hallway, Erica has composed herself, and her blush is mostly gone.

“Hello again, it’s nice to meet less of you,” she says, her smile tight and teasing.

Derek chuffs.  “Likewise,” he replies, then pauses.  “PA?”

“Yep,” Erica chirps, and holds up a badge hanging around her neck that Derek hadn’t noticed earlier.  There’s a picture of Erica, the show’s title, and “Production Assistant” typed on it, with some other official-sounding words Derek doesn’t know the significance of.  "I help out everywhere but technically, I'm your personal assistant." 

“Why do I have a personal assistant?” Derek asks.

Erica smiles.  “Why don’t you have a personal assistant?”  Derek just raises an eyebrow and Erica continues.  “It’s going to be a long six weeks.  I’m here to take care of you.  Get you food, stuff to drink, if you have errands you need to run, underwear to iron, whatever.  Basically, I’m your own personal genie.  Your wish is my command.”

Derek eyes her.  “What if I don’t want a PA?” he asks.

“Then I’m out of a job, and I’ll sue you for lost wages,” Erica replies.  Derek blanches, but a smile creeps along Erica’s face, and she winks at him.  “That’s how Hollywood works, right?”

Instantly, Derek feels at ease and smiles back.  “Okay, fine,” he relents.  “But you’re not ironing my underwear.”

“That’s good,” Erica says.  “They didn’t look all that wrinkled to me anyway.”  Derek tries to suppress another blush, but can’t.  Erica just laughs.  “Sorry.  Anyway, like I was saying, I’m sorry to wake you up so early.  I wasn’t sure if anyone told you what time the contestants are arriving, and I wanted to give you the chance to do whatever you needed to do to get ready.”

“Like what?” Derek asks.

Erica shrugs.  “Eat breakfast, gym, shower, whatever.”  She checks her clipboard.  “The contestants are set to arrive around noon.  You won’t actually meet them until seven o’clock tonight, though, and you’re not allowed to meet them beforehand, so we’ll have to sequester you in your room.”  Derek opens his mouth to object, but Erica cuts him off.  “It sucks, I know, but I’ll bring you lunch whenever you want, or anything you need to entertain yourself for six hours.  Plus, they’ll be sequestered in their part of the house, so I can also sneak you out if you really want.”

The thought of being cooped up in his room, however expansive it is, makes Derek feel a little jumpy.  “Maybe the gym?” he asks.  “Around 2?”

“I can make that happen.”  Erica jots a note down on her clipboard, then continues.  “At 5:00, the contestants will be shuttled to a place just down the street so that we can film their arrival.”

“Why don’t you film their arrival when they actually arrive?” Derek asks.

Erica smiles.  “Because they’ll arrive in taxis, burdened with luggage and sweating from the southern California heat.”  She rolls her eyes good-naturedly.  “Can’t have any actual reality on the reality show.”

“I suppose not,” is all Derek can say in reply.

“I’ll come get you at five o’clock if you want to watch the filmed arrivals,” Erica offers.  “It’ll give you a chance to see who’s who before you come down to meet them.”  Derek nods, and Erica goes on.  “Once the arrivals have been filmed, the contestants will have drinks out on the patio and get to know each other before you make your grand entrance at seven on the dot.  Sound good?”  She looks up from her clipboard, expectantly.

“I suppose ‘no’ isn’t the right answer,” Derek sighs.

“It really, really isn’t,” Erica replies.  “Look, I know this is a weird situation and obviously you’re reconsidering your decision to be here, but…” she trails off.

Derek raises his eyebrows.  “But what?” he asks.

“But…insert your own reason to stay here.”  Erica smiles.  “I’m a PA, not an advice columnist.”

Derek laughs.

“Okay, good, laughing is good,” Erica comments.  “Now, how about breakfast?  Craft services dropped off a lot of great food about a half hour ago.  You could eat in the kitchen or out on the patio, if you want.  The weather’s actually pretty nice.”

Derek’s stomach rumbles at the mention of food, and he realizes he’d pretty much gone straight to bed after the gym last night, without eating anything.  “Breakfast sounds great,” he says.  “Is there coffee?”

“Of course there’s coffee,” Erica snorts.  “How do you think anyone on the film crew survives?  Now come on, before the cameramen eat all the good donuts.”  She turns on her heel and scurries off.  Derek watches her for a second, shaking his head and trying to suppress a smile, before following her down to the kitchen.

\---

Derek eats his breakfast in the kitchen and heads out to the patio to read when he’s finished.  The weather is pretty nice; it’s sunny and there’s a nice breeze coming in off the Valley.  He loses track of time in his book.

True to her word, Erica finds Derek at noon and takes him up to his room.  “I’ll be back at two to take you to the gym,” she promises.  “If you need anything, just call me on this.”  She hands Derek a small device with an antenna.

“A walkie-talkie?” he questions.  It looks like a toy and fits in the palm of his hand.

“No cell phones, remember?”

Derek grunts.  “I feel like a kid playing Capture the Flag.”  Erica smiles at him.

“I’ll come get you for the gym in a couple of hours,” she promises.  She lifts her own walkie talkie to her mouth and presses a button.  “10-4.  Over and out.”  Her voice is in surround sound, coming from her mouth and the walkie-talkie in Derek’s hand.  With a wink, she’s gone. 

When Erica returns to escort Derek to the gym, it’s 2:15 p.m.  She seems hurried and out of breath.

“Everything okay?” Derek asks as they descend the stairs.

“Mostly, yeah,” Erica replies.  “Some of the contestants got stuck in traffic and only just arrived.  Finstock was freaking out and Lydia looked like she was going to snap him in half if he didn’t shut up.”

Derek believes that.

“They’re all here now, though,” Erica continues, “and are fighting over bed space in the Barracks.”

“The Barracks?”

“Their sleeping quarters.  That’s what we’ve been calling it on crew because it’s three rooms with four twin beds each.  I couldn’t sleep in a twin bed and I’m only 5’8”.  Some of those guys are over six feet.”  They arrive at the gym and Erica hustles him inside.  “Page me when you’re done,” she instructs, and then she’s off.

Derek doesn’t think he could actually focus on lifting, so he hops on the treadmill and zones out for four miles.  When he’s finished, he stretches and runs through a quick ab workout.  When he’s finished, he pages Erica and she takes him back to his room, where he showers and puts on yesterday’s jeans and a clean t-shirt.

A little before five o’clock, Erica shows up at his door, carrying a binder along with her ever-present clipboard, and appraises him.

“You’re wearing jeans,” she comments bluntly.

Derek glances down.  The denim is a little threadbare in places, but he doesn’t think he looks bad.  “We already did the underwear thing earlier, I figured I’d answer the door in actual clothes this time. 

“No, I mean—“ Erica sighs.  “Do you have nicer clothes for when you meet the contestants?”  She pushes past Derek and heads into the closet.

“Is there a problem?” Derek asks. 

Erica swipes through the hanging clothes.  “Okay, the button-ups are mostly good.  They’ll need to be ironed, though.”  She grabs a handful of hangered shirts and tosses them on the bed.  “The dark gray one will be good for tonight, it’ll make your eyes pop.”  Erica returns to the closet and starts rummaging around for pants.  “Jeans, jeans, jeans.  All jeans.  Okay, we can make this work for tonight,” she grabs a pair of dark jeans, “but we’ll have to get you some slacks.  What are you, about a 32-32?”

Derek blinks, bewildered.  “What exactly is the issue?”

“Your clothes,” Erica replies.  “I mean they look good, and they’re you, but we also need to make sure you look good on camera.  Lydia would’ve preferred you in slacks for tonight, but she’ll just have to deal.  For some later dates, though, she’ll definitely want you in something nicer.”  She unclips her walkie-talkie from her belt and speaks into it.  “Jeff, I’m going to hang a bunch of shirts outside Derek’s door.  Can you come get them and have them ironed.  Make sure the gray one is ready for tonight.”

“Why do I gotta do it?” says a crackly voice on the other end of the walkie talkie, which Derek assumes belongs to Jeff.

“I’m not asking you to fucking iron the shirts, just take them to wardrobe!”  Erica clips the walkie-talkie back on her belt, smiles sweetly at Derek, and checks her watch.  “We’ve only got a couple of minutes.  Come on, let’s go.”  She grabs Derek’s shirts in one hand and Derek’s hand in the other and drags him out of his room.  After hanging the shirts on the doorknob to Derek’s door, Erica drags him down the hallway toward a door with a sign on it that reads “Production Staff Only.”

“Am I allowed to be in here?” Derek asks.

Erica rolls her eyes as she unlocks the door and pulls Derek in.  “One, you’re with me, so it’s okay.  Two, we wouldn’t be producing the show without you, so you’re kind of production staff, so it’s okay.  Three, will you just get your ass in here so you can watch the contestants do their arrivals?”

“Okay, okay.”  Derek allows himself to be pulled into the room, which is about half the size of his bedroom, and filled with a hodgepodge of electrical equipment.  Against one wall sits a panel of television monitors, each showing different parts of the house.  Derek can see the gym, the foyer, and the kitchen, among other areas.

“There are cameras in my bedroom, right?” Derek asks Erica.  “How come it’s not on any of the monitors?”

“Do you really think Finstock and Lydia care what goes on in your bedroom if there’s no one in there with you in it?”  Erica scoffs, already positioned at the window.  “Get one of these guys in there with you, and we’ll turn those cameras on.  Come over and see who’s here.”  She gestures outside.

Derek walks over and peeks out through the curtains that are not quite all the way closed.  From here, he and Erica have a birds eye view the long black limousine curling around the circle driveway, ready to drop off Boy Meets Boy’s first contestant.  The cameramen ready themselves.

“This is kind of nerve-wracking,” Derek admits.  “Also, kind of creepy.  I feel like Norman Bates’ mother up here.”

“You kinda look like her,” Erica teases, nudging him in the side with her elbow.

“Thanks,” Derek responds drily, before his forehead wrinkles in confusion.  “Wait, don’t you need to be down there?”

Erica rolls her eyes at Derek, something that seems to come naturally to her.  “Dude, what part of ‘personal assistant’ is confusing to you?  Look, the car door is opening.”

The first contestant slides out of the limousine.  Derek can’t make out exact features, but from his creeper window, the guy is...well, he’s tall, dark, and handsome.

“Wow,” Derek murmurs.  “He’s actually…”

“Really friggin’ hot?” Erica supplies.  “Yes, he is.  That’s Danny Mahealani.  He’s kind of a science nerd.”  She pauses, watching Danny stroll through the front door as the limo drives away.  “If they built them like that in my science classes, I wouldn’t have gone into the arts.”  Derek’s nod of agreement is nearly imperceptible, but it’s there.

The limousine returns and drops off another contestant.  A tall, brawny guy steps out, his deep brown skin a contrast to the powder-blue fitted tee that barely contained his physique.

“Boyd,” Erica announces.  “Well, Vernon Boyd, but thankfully he goes by his last name.”  She shakes her head.  “Vernon?  Really?”

Derek suppresses a small smile.  “He’s beautiful,” he comments, mostly to himself.  Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

The limousine continues to make its rounds, dropping off contestant after contestant.  Derek is surprised not only by how attractive he finds most of them, but how naturally they act in front of the cameras.  He’s already feeling nervous about having to head down in a couple of hours and face the lens himself.

“They’re just ignoring the camera,” Derek notes.  “How do they do that?”

“We told them to,” Erica replies.  “Well, ‘we’ in the pejorative sense.  The contestants are told to act as natural as possible and forget that the cameras are there.  Which reminds me, I’m supposed to tell you to act as natural as possible and forget that the cameras are there.”  An impish grin spreads across her face as Derek shoots her a side-eye.

“Thank,” he mutters.  They turn their attention back to the window.  As if on cue, the next contestant who steps out of the limousine looks directly into the camera and starts laughing.

“Cut, do it again!” Derek can hear an annoyed voice shout out.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry!” the contestant apologizes.  He climbs back into limousine, his entire body seeming like one big mass of limbs.

“Okay, go again!”

The limo door opens again.  The guy steps out and promptly trips over his own feet, stumbling out of the car and catching himself at the last minute.

“Cut!  Again!” the voice shouts again, now more angry than annoyed, and Derek realizes the voice belongs to Finstock.  He can’t be sure, but he swears he can see the contestant’s face begin to turn splotchy with embarrassment.

“One more time!” the contestant yells back.  “I’ve got this, I promise!”  He climbs back in the limo and shuts the door again.

“Go.”

The car door opens again and the contestant exits with no further incident.  He straightens his tie as he looks up, taking in the house.  He happens to glance up at the window Derek and Erica are standing in, and throws up a wave at them.  They jump out of view.

“Goddammit!” Finstock yells.  “Forget it, we’ll edit it in post.  Just keep going!”  The contestant scurries into the house and out of sight.

“How did he even make it here?” Derek wonders.

“Right?  It’s like we’re watching a game of ‘One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other,’” Erica answers.  “Probably a personality diversity sort of thing.  Throw in a dork for all the people who think we cast based only on abs.”  She tosses a glance at Derek’s stomach and raises her eyebrows at him.

Derek ignores her and wracks his brain, trying to put the guy’s face with a name.  He remembers seeing the picture on a page, but can’t pull a name to mind.  All he sees is a jumble of letters.

“I can’t remember his name,” Derek admits.

“Stiles Stilinski.”

Derek pulls a double-take.  “What?”

“His name is Stiles Stilinski,” Erica repeats.  “Well, Stiles is a nickname.  I can’t pronounce his real name.”

Derek levels his gaze at her.  “How do you know that?” he asks.  “In fact, how do you know all of their names?”  Erica just shrugs.

“I memorized your Look Book,” she replies nonchalantly.  She holds up her binder, and Derek realizes it’s a duplicate to his.  “Also, I made the Look Book.  I’m a bomb-ass PA.”

“You couldn’t have just told me that before?”

“More fun to make me seem psychic and make you look like an idiot.”  Erica ignores Derek’s huff of indignation, turning her attention back to the limousine dropping off it’s last contestant.  “Oh, that is nice.”

A model steps out of the limousine.  At least, that’s what Derek assumes this contestant’s occupation is.  His body looks lean and toned under his olive green, short-sleeved button-up with military shoulders, tucked into a pair of charcoal-colored slacks.  His hair is perfectly coiffed and even from here, Derek can tell that the guy’s mouth looks made for kissing.  Among other things.

“Jesus Christ,” Derek mumbles to himself.

“He looks like he thinks he is,” Erica states.  “That’s Jackson Whittemore.  He’s not particularly my type--I’d take Boyd in a heartbeat--but I probably wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”

The pair watch as Jackson strolls into the house like he owns the place, the front door shutting firmly behind him.  The cameramen begin scurrying around, packing up the lights they used to battle the shadows of the sun beginning its dip into the horizon.

Erica turns to Derek.  “Okay, big guy, that’s your cue to go get dressed.”  She leads him out of the production room and down to his bedroom.  His gray button-up hangs from the doorknob.  Erica picks it up and looks from it, to Derek, and back.

“We can do better,” she asserts.  She walks into the room and back into Derek’s closet.  After taking a quick survey, she pulls a deconstructed blazer off the rack.

“How do you own this?” she asks.  Derek takes it from her, wondering the same thing.

“Laura must have bought it and snuck it in without me noticing,” he realizes.

“Well it’s perfect,” Erica states matter-of-factly.  She roots around in a drawer until she finds what she’s looking for.  “Aha!” she exclaims, pulling out a simple white v-neck.  “Put this on.”

“Now?” Derek asks.

“Yes, now,” Erica huffs.  “I want to make sure it looks good before I send you down.  Personal assistant, remember?  Now off with this shirt and on with the v-neck.”

Derek narrows his eyes but does as he’s told and dons the v-neck.

“Now the blazer,” Erica instructs.  Derek shrugs it on and Erica takes a step back.

“Yes,” she confirms after a few agonizing seconds.  “Put the dark jeans on with that, and you’ll be the walking embodiment of sex.”

“That’s what I was going for,” Derek deadpans.

Erica hustles out of the closet.  “Put the jeans on and do something with your hair.”

With that, she closes the door, leaving Derek alone again.  He takes the blazer and the v-neck off so he can brush his teeth and put some product in his hair without getting his clothes dirty.  Before he left for the show, Laura bought him a container of styling wax and showed him how to use it.  Derek begrudgingly admits that the effect looks good.  When he’s finished, he perches on his bed and absent-mindedly flips through his Look Book, still not retaining any of the information within it.

Finally, at about quarter to seven, he puts on the dark jeans, v-neck, and blazer, pairing it all with a pair of distressed faded leather boots he’s positive Erica would approve of.  He even allows himself a couple sprays of cologne.  At five to seven, Erica knocks on the door.

“Come in,” Derek calls out.  Erica opens the door and surveys Derek.  For a few seconds she says nothing, then finally lets out a breath that Derek didn’t realize she was holding.

“Wow,” she says.  “I know I saw you in your underwear earlier, but I have to say, you look sexier in this.”  She eyes the boots.  “Those are good.  Those are very good.”

“Thanks,” Derek replies, and allows himself a small smile.  He follows Erica out the door and down the hallway.  As they walk, Erica pages Jeff through her walkie-talkie and tells him to ready the cameras.  They head down the staircase and stop about ten feet from the doors that lead to the patio.  Through the glass, Derek can see the contestants mingling about, talking to each other as the cameras swirl around, filming as much as they can.

“This is where I leave you,” Erica tells him.  “This is what you’re going to do:  you’re going to walk to the balcony, smile, and say, ‘Hello everybody!’  Smile for me.”  Derek flashes her a smile and Erica’s head bobbles back and forth as she decides.  “Good enough.  Try to think of something you’d rather be doing that would make you happy, and go with that.  Then, you’ll walk down the steps and the host, Allison Argent, will greet you and...that’s it.  You’ll meet, you’ll greet, you’ll charm their pants off.  Hopefully literally, and the ratings will be through the roof.”

Derek chuckles at this, then takes a shaky breath.

“You nervous?” Erica asks sincerely.  Derek nods.  “Don’t worry, you’ll be great.  If you need me, just signal Allison and she’ll have me paged.”  Erica pauses for a brief second, then gives Derek a quick and tentative hug that catches him off-guard with a surprising rush of emotion.

“Do me proud, big guy.”  With that, Erica walks off.

Derek turns and faces the door again, taking a couple of breaths to calm his nerves.  When he feels like his pulse has returned to something more human than racehorse, he walks forward.

“Here goes nothing,” he murmurs to himself, opens the doors, and steps out onto the patio.  Immediately, thirteen pairs of eyes and two cameras are on him.  He panics for a second, then splashes a smile across his face.

“Hello everybody!” he greets.  “I'm Derek.  Welcome to Boy Meets Boy!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles moves into the "Boy Meets Boy" mansion and meets, y'know, everybody. Except Derek. That doesn't happen yet.

“How in the hell did I let you talk me into doing this?”  Stiles nervously drums his fingers on his thigh, clutching his phone to his ear with his other hand.

Heather signed on the other end of the line.  “Stiles, we talked about this for, like, hours before you even auditioned.  Why are you still on this?”

“Because I’m stuck in traffic on the 405 in Los Angeles and I was supposed to be at the house, like, 45 minutes ago, so I’m a little nervous right now, Heather.”  Stiles starts shaking his leg up and down, the rapid movement causing the taxi he’s in to bounce slightly.

The driver ticks a glance in the rearview mirror.  “Sir, can you stop shaking your leg please?”

“Sorry dude,” Stiles replies.  “How much longer till we’re there, do you know?”  The taxi driver looks at his watch, then up at the sea of traffic in front of them, then back at Stiles.  They haven’t moved in ten minutes.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Stiles apologizes, then turns his attention back to Heather.  “They’re going to kill me the second I get there.”

“Stiles, traffic is not your fault,” Heather scoffs.  “If they were really worried about it, they would’ve, like, helicoptered you in or something.”

“No, screw this.  I’m done.  I’m backing out.”

On the other end of the phone, Heather heaves the most exasperated sigh Stiles has ever heard from another human being, let alone his best friend since kindergarten.  “Stiles,” she practically spits, and Stiles knows he’s in for a tongue-lashing.  “First of all, you signed a contract.  A legal and binding contract.  Your dad made you get a lawyer to look it over.  That’s how legal and binding it is.  I’m pretty sure that unless you, like, die, they’re not going to release you from your contractual obligation.”

“I know, I know,” Stiles tries to interject, but Heather just continues her rant.

“And why not do it?  Especially right now?  You just graduated college, you have absolutely nothing to do all summer, and you could use the money.  Especially since you didn’t even bother job hunting or searching for grad schools during the last year of college, so with nothing on the horizon, you could really use the money.”

“But do I need the money so bad that I have to resort to whoring myself out?” Stiles retort.  “Auditioning for this was just supposed to be a joke.  I didn’t think they’d actually take me.”

On the other end of the phone, Stiles can practically hear Heather rolling her eyes.  “Is this that whole, ‘I’m not cute enough to be anyone’s boyfriend’ thing again?”

Stiles sighs, annoyed.  “I think I’m pretty cute, dammit.”  In the front seat, the cab driver snorts derisively.  Stiles glares at him as he continues, “I just mean, my type is generally not the type to show up on dating shows, y’know?”

“I’m not having this discussion again, Stiles,” Heather admonishes, the edge in her voice suggesting that it’s really time for Stiles to shut up.  “We both know how adorable you are.  We’ve had that whole Will & Grace ‘if you were straight I would’ discussion.”  Stiles smiles at that.  “And we had that moment before you came out to me where we made out.  And I’m pretty hot.  And I wanted to make out with you.  So if you think you’re not hot enough for a dating show, you must be saying that I’m not hot.  Are you saying I’m not hot, Stiles?”

“You’re hot, you’re hot!” Stiles shouts into the phone.  The cabbie glances back in the rearview mirror.  Stiles covers the mouthpiece and addresses the driver, “Not you, I don’t even know you.”  The cabbie rolls his eyes and Stiles returns to his call.  “Fine, you’re right and I’m wrong,” he tells Heather.

“Thank you,” Heather says.  “So shut the fuck up and enjoy a six-week vacation or whatever.  Just have fun.”

The cab lurches forward and steadily picks up speed.  “Oh thank God, the cab’s moving again,” Stiles says with relief.  “I’m going to let you go.  Talk to you in six weeks!”

“Get some ass!” is Heather’s farewell.  Stiles disconnects the phone, leans back against the cracked leather cab seat, and tries to breathe through the butterflies in his stomach.

A half an hour later, the cab pulls up to the Boy Meets Boy house.  Mansion.  It’s definitely a mansion.  An impatient-looking blonde woman stands by the front door, anxiously checking a clipboard.  Stiles steps out of the cab.

“Stiles Stilinski?” the woman questions, her voice brisk and clipped, as the cabbie pulls Stiles’ luggage out of the trunk.

“Ma’am, yes ma’am!” Stiles throws up a mock salute.  “Private Stilinski, reporting for duty!”  The blonde narrows her eyes and for the briefest second, Stiles actually fears for his life.

“You’re a half hour late,” she states flatly.

“Traffic,” Stiles falters.

“You’re a half hour late,” the woman repeats, “and the hot water is already out in the Barracks, the filter broke in the lagoon pool and nobody noticed until the water was covered with algae and the pool guys can’t get here for another hour, and I’ve already had to talk Derek off a ledge once and that doesn’t bode well for the rest of filming and Jesus fucking Christ I’m just trying to get an internship credit, so I swear to God if you give me anymore sass anytime within the next twelve hours I may actually eviscerate you with my fingernails.”

Stiles’ throat bobs up and down.  He’s pretty sure this woman means it.

“So let’s try this again,” she continues.  “Are you Stiles Stilinski?”

Behind him, Stiles hears the cabbie snicker as he climbs back inside his car and drives off, leaving Stiles feeling like he just lost his last chance of escape.

“Yes ma’am,” Stiles answers quietly, looking down at the ground as his face beginning to flush.  He sees the woman sag slightly at his response.  She closes her eyes, lets out a breath, then opens her eyes and stands up straight.

“Erica,” she says.  “Call me Erica, please.  And I’m sorry for letting all that out on you.”

“S’ok,” Stiles absolves her, doing his best to erase his first impression of this obviously overworked woman.

Erica smiles tightly.  “It’s not okay, but thanks.”  She checks her watch, mutters a curse under her breath, and pulls a walkie talkie off her belt.  “Jeff,” she barks into it, and waits.

After a second, the handset squawks.  “What?” a voice—presumably Jeff’s—replies.

“Last one’s here,” she answers, motioning with her eyes for Stiles to grab his bags and follow her.  They step inside and even with his long legs, Stiles practically has to run to keep up with Erica.  “Let Lydia, Finstock, and Duke know they can come down to the Barracks in about fifteen,” Erica continues into the walkie.

“10-4,” Jeff replies, somewhat sarcastically.  Erica rolls her eyes and clips the handset back to her belt as she and Stiles step out onto the patio and head toward a bungalow he assumes is the Barracks.

“That’s the Barracks,” Erica confirms.  “I mean, technically it’s the guest house.  I guess technically, though, you guys are guests.”  She pauses.  “I never had any house guests that I had to pay, though.”  She flashes Stiles a mega-watt grin that reminds him of Heather and instantly makes him feel at ease.

“Probably for the best,” Stiles tosses back.  “Otherwise you’d get arrested for solicitation.”  Erica laughs, and Stiles feels like he’s won her over.  She grabs his arm and leads him to the front door of the Barracks.

“Everyone else already got a full property tour, so I’ll give you one later.  For now, just get settled in and get to know your competitors.”  She opens the door and Stiles can just barely make out a faint murmur of voices coming from inside.  Otherwise, it’s mostly silence.  Erica gestures for Stiles to go in.

“Good luck,” she winks, and then she’s gone, leaving Stiles to fend for himself.

Inside the Barracks, it's bright and sunny.  The room he’s in is tiny, and Stiles assumes it’s just a welcoming space.  If he looks closely, he can see cameras mounted in each of the ceiling corners, and he has to resist the urge to wave at them.  He steps into the next room—a living room, he guesses—and sees cameras in every corner there as well.  A few other guys are lounging in the room including, Stiles is taken aback to discover, a pair of twins.

“Hey, did you guys know that you look exactly like each other?” Stiles jokes before he can stop himself.  “What a coincidence, right?”

The twins just look at each other.  One scoffs while the other rolls his eyes.  Stiles feels the blush beginning to mottle his cheeks again, even as another guy starts laughing.

“That was funny, dude,” the guy says.  He gets up from where he’s sprawled out on a couch and crosses toward Stiles.  “I’m Scott, nice to meet you.”  He holds his hand out to Stiles, who shakes it.

“Stiles,” he says.

Twin #1 snorts at that.  “What’s a Stiles?” he asks.

“Short for Stilinski.”

“Your name is Stilinski?” Twin #2 asks.

“My last name is Stilinski.”

“Well, what’s your first name, then?” Twin #1 asks.

“Stiles.”

Scott cracks up while the twins just blink in confusion.  “C’mon Stiles,” he says.  “I’ll show you where we sleep.”  Before Stiles can protest, Scott picks up Stiles’ bags and heads toward a hallway to Stiles’ left.

Stiles scurries after Scott just in time to see him turn through a door into a bedroom.  Stiles rounds the corner to find four twin beds, four dressers, and two of the most gorgeous men he’s ever seen.

“That’s Danny.” Scott points toward the man who’s tall, dark, and Hawaiian.  Danny offers up a smile, and the dimple that appears in his cheek nearly makes Stiles swoon.  “And that’s Jackson.”

Jackson is reclining on one of the beds, looking every inch like a model from an Abercrombie catalogue.  His hair is dirty blonde, his eyes are ice blue, and his lower lip pouts out perfectly, basically screaming “suck on me!”  Stiles would, too, if he ever thought he’d have a chance in hell.

Scanning Stiles up and down, Jackson’s eyebrows knit into an amused expression.  “Wow, they really scraped the bottom of the barrel with you, didn’t they?”

”Jackson,” Danny warns, in a way that sounds like he’s said it many times before.  Scott just frowns.

Stiles brushes the comment off.  “I happen to think I have a certain adorkable aesthetic that some guys find charming and irresistible, thank you.”  There’s a tense pause before Jackson starts laughing.  Stiles isn’t sure what to make of it.

“That was good.  That was good,” Jackson says, rising off the bed and shaking Stiles hand.  “You can stay.”  He points to an bed crammed in the corner of a room where Scott has placed Stiles’ bags.

“It’s the last empty bed there is,” Scott explains.  “That’s good though, because now you’re in a room with me.”  Scott says it like it’s the best thing in the world, and it makes Stiles feel even better about the fact that he’s spending the next few weeks here.  Like he’s made an instant friend.

Stiles walks over to his bed to start unpacking when there’s a commotion in living room.   “Come on out, gay boys, we got some rules to go over!” a voice shouts out.  All four boys in the room raise their eyebrows in disbelief.

“Gay boys?” Stiles questions.

“Finstock,” Danny mutters, offering up a shrug in reply.

By the time the four of them reach the living room, the rest of the contestants have already gathered and taken all available seats.  Three people—adults, as Stiles would describe them, even though the contestants themselves are adults—stand near the entrance, confabbing with each other while they wait for everyone to gather.  Stiles recognizes one of them as Lydia Martin, the producer who conducted his final interview and who, in another life, Stiles would have wasted a lot of time pining over.

“Have you met everyone here?” Stiles whispers to Scott.

“Yeah,” Scott whispers back.  He nods to the twins.  “You’ve met Ethan and Aiden,” he explains, “although I still don’t know how to tell them apart.  Those guys are Boyd and Isaac.”  He points to two guys, one dark-skinned and one fair-skinned, sitting next to each other on one of the couches.

Stiles scrunches up his face in confusion.  “Why the hell is Isaac wearing a scarf, it’s like 75 degrees outside?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, dude,” Scott answers.  He gestures to a bald guy who looks like he lives in a gym.  “That guy’s Ennis.”

“Holy crap, he’s very…”

“Yes, he is very.”

“He’s, like, three times the size of me,” Stiles exclaims quietly.  “He could probably do bicep curls with my entire body!”

Scott nods.  “I haven’t talked to him much, yet.  He seems pretty quiet, though.”  Scott gestures to the last three guys.  “That’s Kyle Parrish and Adrian Harris—both of them just go by their last names—and that guy is Greenburg.  That’s literally all I know about him.”

Stiles surveys the contestants and instantly feels inadequate.  “Everyone’s so…attractive.”  Scott smiles and nods in agreement.

“Don’t knock yourself,” Scott says, reading the look of worry on Stiles’ face.  “You’re pretty cute too, dude.”

Stiles blushes.  “Still though,” he continues.  “What’s to keep everyone from just...hooking up with everybody else?”

“A very good question, Mr. Stilinski!”  Stiles’s head snaps toward the front of the room to see the wild-eyed producer staring him down.  Stiles didn’t realize he’d asked that as loud as he apparently had, and once again, the blush seems to mottle across his face again.  Across the room, he hears Jackson snicker at him.

“Hello, everybody, I’m Finstock,” the guy continues.  He gestures to Lydia next to him.  “You all remember my partner in crime from your final entrance interviews.  I was not at those interviews because apparently, I am not a people person.”  He casts a side-eye to Lydia, whose own eyes grow wide, innocent, and unassuming.

“And this gentleman,” Finstock gestures to the man standing on the other side of Lydia, “is Duke.  Duke is short for a name I’m not even going to bother bringing up because it’s so preposterous, I can’t imagine why any parent would give it to their child.”

Duke sighs and closes his eyes for a second, seeming to gather himself.  “Thank you, Finstock, for that very illustrious introduction,” he finally says.  “Hello all.  As Finstock said, my name is Deucal—Duke, and I will be serving as the director for Boy Meets Boy.”  Before he can continue, Lydia leads the group in a round of applause.

“Thank you,” Duke continues.  “Now, first thing’s first—“

“First thing’s first,” Finstock interrupts, “is young Mr. Stilinski’s question.  In case you all didn’t hear, Stilinski is wondering what is going to keep everyone from hooking up with everyone else while you’re here on the show.  Which begs the question, Stilinski, who is it you’re wanting to hook up with?”  Finstock chuckles as the rest of the room breaks into laughter.  Stiles stares at a spot on the floor in front of him and prays to every god he can think of that the earth will open and swallow him whole.

Lydia shoots Stiles a sympathetic look.  “Stiles, to answer your question, there is a clause in the contract that all twelve of you signed, stating that you will refrain from entering into any physical or romantic relationships during your tenure in the competition.  Failure to comply with this clause could result in your removal from the show and the potential loss of any monetary compensation you receive for appearing on the show.”

There’s a silence around the room as everyone just stares at Lydia, dumbfounded.

“What?” Lydia demands.  “I’m the executive producer, this is my job.”  She rolls her eyes as nervous titters fill the room.

“So basically, keep it in your pants or else,” Finstock orders.

“Thank you, Lydia,” Duke says, pointedly ignoring Finstock’s input.  “Now, everybody, the most important thing I need to tell you is to act natural at all times.  You might feel the need to put on a character while you’re on camera, or freeze up, or feel nervous—“

“Or blah blah blah.”  Duke glares at Finstock’s interruption.  Finstock continues, oblivious.  “Basically, be yourselves.  You’re here to attract the attention of our boy D-Heezy, not make a star-turning appearance that segues into a long and profitable Hollywood career.”

“D-Heezy?” Stiles whispers to Scott.  Scott shrugs, as Lydia pinches the bridge of her nose looking like she’s doing her best to stay calm.

“Finstock,” Lydia says, “why don’t you go and see if the pool guys need any supervision.”  Finstock begins to snort and sputter, and Lydia levels her gaze on him.  “Please,” she adds shortly, her tone making the word sound more like “now” than “please”.

Finstock stares her down for a second before slipping out of the room.  They hear the front door open and close, and the entire room seems to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Duke?” Lydia chirps.

“Thank you,” Duke replies with relief.  He turns to address the contestants.  “So, yes, please do your best to be yourselves.  I promise you that after all of five minutes, you’ll completely forget the cameras are there.”

Lydia nods.  “Now,” she says, “our schedule for today.  At five o’clock we need to film your arrivals.”

“Why didn’t we film our arrivals when we actually arrived?” Jackson asks.

“How attractive do you think you look lumbering out of a cab carrying your luggage, clothes all wrinkled form traveling?”  Lydia points out.

“I mean…have you seen me?”  Jackson holds his arms wide, letting Lydia get a good view.  A couple guys in the room snicker.  A couple other guys try unsuccessfully not to check Jackson out.  Stiles and Scott roll their eyes.

“I have,” Lydia answers.  “And I’m not impressed.”  At that, Stiles involuntarily hoots with mirth, earning himself a nasty glare from Jackson.  Stiles really doesn’t care; there was something about Jackson he didn’t like from the moment he met the guy, and Stiles is realizing it’s his ego.

“Now,” Lydia continues, “at four o’clock we’ll take you to the remote location you’ll be arriving from.  Surprise, it’s just a half a mile down the road.  We’ll have two limousines working in succession to bring you from the remote location to the mansion.  You’ll be filmed getting out of the car and walking into the mansion, where you’ll head to the patio and get to know each other until our bachelor joins us.  Any questions?”

“Yeah, how should we dress?” Scott asks, raising his hand.

Lydia levels her gaze at him.  “To impress, Scott.  Dress to impress.”  Scott lowers his hand, looking properly put in his place.  “Now, are there any real questions,” Lydia non-asks.  When she’s met with a round of silence, she nods happily.  “Good.  You have three hours to get ready.  Duke?”  Lydia turns on a stilettoed heel and walks out of the room, Duke in tow. 

There’s a pause among the contestants before Jackson rises to his feet.  “I got first shower,” he announces, and heads out of the room.  Stiles groans inwardly.  Jackson already looks daisy fresh, and Stiles can feel the stink of traffic jam permeating his clothing.

Scott leans over to Stiles.  “Don’t worry,” he explains.  “There are two other bathrooms with showers.”

Before Stiles can speak up, two other guys announce their intentions to bathe and take off.  In rapid succession, each guy calls the next spot, leaving Stiles, Scott, and Greenburg to shower last.

\---

Hours later, all the contestants are milling about on the patio, having filmed their arrivals and anxiously waiting for Derek to make his entrance.  Well, Stiles is anxious.  Everyone else appears to be pretty calm.

“You want another drink?” Scott asks, gesturing to Stiles’ empty glass.  Stiles plucks out the straw and begins chewing on it nervously.

“Are you kidding?” he asks Scott.  “After how long it took me to film my arrival, everyone already probably thinks I’m drunk.  I think I’ll pass on adding fuel to the fire.”

“Your arrival wasn’t that bad, Stiles.”

Stiles levels his gaze at Scott.  “I kept fucking up.  I couldn’t stop looking at the camera, I was sweating like I’d just come from a five-hour lacrosse practice, and I thought Finstock was going to decapitate me!”  Even though Duke was the director, Finstock had been leaning over his shoulder and dictating what kind of shots he should be getting.  When Stiles had fumbled his arrival—not once, not twice, but three times the fuck-up—Finstock’s face practically turned purple with rage.  It would have been hilarious had Stiles not been legitimately afraid for his life.

The one drink Stiles was allowing himself to have, a Jack and Coke, had helped to relax him a bit.  Except now the carbonation from the Coke has started to send tiny little burps up his throat and present an entirely new set of problems for him, considering the cameras currently filming the twelve contestants.

“Okay, well…” Scott trails off trying to find something to say.  “At least Derek didn’t see it, right?  So you still have the chance to impress him.”  Stiles shrugs his shoulders non-committedly, his jaw furiously clenching and unclenching as he chewed on his straw.

Scott takes a final swallow of his beer, then stands.  “I’m going to go get another,” he says, and leans over to take the straw out of Stiles’ mouth.  “Try to relax, okay?”  He gives Stiles an assured pat on the shoulder and walks off toward the open bar.

While he’s gone, Stiles takes in the patio.  The contestants have already started forming cliques.  Stiles and Scott clearly have glommed onto each other—and thank God for that, because if Stiles had to go this alone, he’s pretty sure he would have collapsed into himself by now.  Danny and Jackson have obviously grouped themselves together, but they also seem to have accepted Ethan with them.  Ennis and Aiden have attached themselves to each other, forming the angriest-looking twosome Stiles has ever seen.  Isaac and Boyd established the most obvious friendship ever, with Greenburg flitting around them, dropping casual hints that he’s maybe sorta kind of attracted to Finstock, an obvious crush that everyone else is trying their hardest to ignore.

The only person who hasn’t really incorporated himself into any particular group is Parrish.  He’s affable enough that he’s been able to get along with everyone so far, but he doesn’t seem to have connected with anyone yet.  Stiles motions for Parrish to join him.

“Hey man, what’s up?” Parrish asks as he takes the seat Scott left behind.  Stiles glances around and sees Scott talking animatedly with Isaac and Boyd.

“Oh, y’know,” Stiles answers casually.  “Sitting around and waiting for some conventionally attractive dude to show up so I can try to woo him and win his heart.  Same ol’, same ol’.”

Parrish laughs and opens his mouth to reply, but he’s cut off by a shout from Finstock.

“Alright, girls, listen up!” 

Parrish’s eyebrow spikes up so high that Stiles is certain it’s about to hike right off of his face.  “Girls?” he whispers.

“I know, I can’t,” Stiles whispers back.

Finstock stands by the patio doors, flanked by Duke.  Duke looks for all the world like he wants to deck Finstock.  Stiles notes that apparently Lydia is the only person who can keep Fintock in check.  He’s not surprised; Lydia seems like the type of woman who doesn’t take anybody’s shit.

“Our bachelor is on his way down,” Finstock continues, “which means it’s time to sparkle, Neely, sparkle!”

“Did he really just quote Valley of the Dolls to us?  Is that really the direction he wants to go?” Parrish side-mouths to Stiles.  Stiles stifles a giggle.

Finstock begins to speak again, but Duke steps in front of him.  Finstock sputters and attempts to sidestep around Duke, but Duke casually moves around the patio, keeping himself placed in front of Finstock at every step.

“When he comes down, he’ll introduce himself,” Duke explains, his soft British lilt the polar opposite of Finstock’s loud, obnoxious braying.  “Then, we’ll go right into one-on-one conversations, which will happen in the grotto right over there.”  Duke gestures toward a secluded area on the opposite side of the patio.  “We picked who would go at random.  While each of you gets his chance to impress Derek, we’ll continue to film the rest of you mingling over here.  Any questions?”

“Yeah, what’s the dude’s name?” Jackson asks.

Before Duke can reply, the walkie talkie on his belt beeps.  He murmurs into it, listens to the reply, then clips the walkie back to his belt.

“Okay folks, this is it,” he calls out.

“This is it!” Finstock repeats loudly, still attempting to elbow his way in front of Duke.  Duke surreptitiously elbows Finstock in the solar plexus, and Finstock doubles over in pain.

“I’d like to make this as real as possible and get it in one shot, so Finstock and I,” at this, Duke wraps his arm around Finstock’s shoulder and hugs him close.  He continues, “are going to go behind the cameras and stay very quiet,” he emphasizes those words with what appears to be very tight squeezes to Finstock’s shoulders, judging yet he winces of pain that flutter across his face.  “…while the bachelor makes his entrance.  So go back to your discussions and just, y’know…act naturally.”  Finished with his speech, Duke drags Finstock off the patio and over to the bank of monitors set up around the side of the patio, where they can watch the action.

“That was a thing of beauty to behold,” Parrish says to Stiles, who laughs.

“Yeah, who knew that in the absence of Lydia, all it would take is some physical violence to shut Finstock the hell up,” Stiles answers.

Suddenly, the patio doors swing open.  Twelve contestant heads swivel to take in the Adonis that just walked out onto the patio.

“Hello everyone!” the guy calls out.  “I’m Derek.  Welcome to Boy Meets Boy!”

Stiles mouth drops open.  The bachelor—Derek, apparently—is entirely more attractive than Stiles expected.  From head to toe, he’s dressed impeccably.  His jeans have just the right amount of sag, and the v-neck clings to his torso like a second skin.  The blazer practically hangs off his shoulders like it was made for him.

But what stands out to Stiles the most are Derek’s eyes.  Overall, Derek’s features are dark—his hair seems almost black and the angle of his jaw and the scruff that adorns it would give off the idea that Derek is a Bad Boy, if it weren’t for Derek’s eyes.  Even when he’s not smiling, the crinkles in the corner belie the bad boy image.  Derek clearly smiles with his eyes, and often.  Tyra Banks would be so proud.  Stiles finds himself looking forward to finding out what color they are during his one-on-one.

“Now Derek, that’s my line!”  Allison Argent, the show’s host, strolls calmly over to Derek from where she had been conversing with Scott, Isaac, and Boyd.  The contestants all titter nervously.

“But I guess since you look absolutely delicious, I’ll let it slide.”  Allison turns to face the contestants and they see that her eyes are bright and shining, a wide smile plastered across her face.  The nervous titters turn into laughter.

“Well Derek, I’m sure you’d love to stroll around and get to know everybody, but we thought it would be a better idea to bring everybody to you,” Allison explains.  She casually loops her arm through Derek’s and begins to lead him over to the grotto.  Along the way, she stops next to Ennis.

“Ennis, you’re up first!”  Ennis stands, and Allison loops her free arm through his.  “Just where a girl always wants to be, sandwiched between two beautiful men,” Allison chirps.  “Of course, I’d prefer they were both straight, but we can’t always get what we want!”

Derek laughs and Ennis chuckles as Allison walks them toward the grotto.  “Harris, I’ll bring you back here in a few minutes.  You’re number two!”  With that, Allison, Derek, and Ennis turn the corner toward the grotto and walk out of sight.

“Holy shit,” Parrish intones.  “That is possibly the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.”  Stiles just nods and swallows, his throat bobbing up and down.

“I’m gonna need another drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 is in the works. I got too anxious to not post Chapters 1-3. Luckily, I graduate in three days and then after that, I can write to my heart's content.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek has one-on-one time with all the contestants, and meets Jackson and Stiles.

Derek has to clench his jaw to keep from visibly yawning, not just from exhaustion—he hadn’t expected that sitting around listening to guys talk about themselves would be so tiring—but also from extreme boredom. This guy Greenberg is nice enough, but there’s nothing there to hold his attention. Derek nearly collapses with relief when he sees Allison walk into the grotto.

“Time’s up!” she calls out. Derek and Greenberg stand and shake each other’s hands.

“It was nice to meet you,” Derek lies. Greenberg nods and Allison loops her arm through his and turns to walk away.

“Don’t worry, buddy, I’m sure you’ll get the chance for more one-on-one time with Derek later.” She turns back to look at Derek, who shoots daggers at her with his eyes. He swears he can make out a hidden smirk of solidarity in her smile.

“Be right back with the next one!” She tells him, and she and Greenberg turn the corner and walk out of sight. Derek lets out a sigh and wearily rubs at his eyes.

“Careful there, big guy,” comes a voice from behind one of the cameras, causing Derek to startle in his seat on the couch. “You’re gonna make your eyes all red and puffy and who’s gonna fall in love with a bachelor who looks completely stoned?”

“Christ, I forgot you were there,” Derek mutters.

“That means they’re doing their job,” a different, familiar voice answers. Erica steps into his line of sight. “How you doing, you need anything?”

“Besides some Visine and a cold compress for those eyes after you finish rubbing them to death?” the unseen voice offers.

Erica grins. “Kali, be nice.” The voice giggles as Allison walks back into the grotto with another contestant in tow. Derek hasn’t been able to remember everyone’s names from the Look Book that Erica made for him, but he definitely remembers this one. Standing before him in a crisp white polo tucked into a pair of freshly-pressed khakis is Jackson Whittemore, the model-esque man he and Erica had all but drooled over while the contestants filmed their arrivals. Derek more so than Erica.

“Derek,” Allison practically purrs, her hand wrapped around Jackson’s bicep. “This fine young man is Jackson, and just between you and me?” Allison glances around surreptitiously before dropping her voice down to a mock whisper and continuing, “if you don’t take him, I will.”  
Jackson laughs good-naturedly, flashing a row of white, even teeth while Allison grins devilishly. Even Derek finds it in him to chuckle along, completely mesmerized by the man standing in front of him.

“If only, Allison,” Jackson teases. “If only.” Allison laughs and, giving Jackson’s arm one last squeeze, turns him over to Derek.

“All yours, Derek,” she smirks.

“If only, Allison,” Jackson repeats, shooting a side-eye to Derek before winking at Allison. “If only.”

Derek can feel his cheeks begin to redden as Allison lets out a hearty laugh. He can even hear Kali and Erica tittering from behind the camera.  
Allison begins to saunter away, calling out over her shoulder, “Have fun, Derek!”

Derek motions for Jackson to sit down and he does, crossing one leg over the other in Derek’s direction, and leaning back against the couch, appearing confident without being cocky.

“Sorry about that,” Jackson apologizes. “I guess I got kind of carried away, but look at you, it’s difficult not to.” He smiles warmly as Derek feels his blush deepen.

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek replies. He smooths his hands over his legs, trying to hide his sudden nervousness. “So, um…what do you do?”

“Oh gosh, I hate this question,” Jackson admits, laughing and burying his face in his hands, seemingly embarrassed. He scrunches up his face, eyes shut tight, and chuckles. “I’m a model,” he finally admits.

“A model?” Derek asks, his eyebrows knitting together in surprise. Jackson definitely has model good looks, but he had not expected for Jackson to actually be a model.

“Yeah,” Jackson says bashfully. “It always feels so stupid to tell people that I’m a model, like they expect me to be some narcissistic airhead.”

Derek can’t help but be a bit charmed by the fact that Jackson seems embarrassed by his confession. “Well, are you a narcissistic airhead?” Derek teases.  
Jackson leans forward, glancing around furtively, before whispering, “Why do you think I’m a model?”

Derek can’t help himself. He lets loose a belly laugh he didn’t know he was capable of producing, and claps his hand over his mouth. Jackson grins, looking pleased to have elicited such a reaction from Derek.

“You have a great smile,” Jackson compliments, his own smile becoming something more fond. Derek chuffs a little bit, brushing the compliment off.

“How did you get into modeling?” he asks Jackson.

Jackson re-adjusts himself on the couch, uncrossing his legs and turning more toward Derek. “I actually got into UCLA on a lacrosse scholarship,” he explains. “One day on my way to class, I saw a notice on a bulletin board that photography students needed subjects for a project. It was the off-season and there was a little compensation for it, like $50, so I thought, why not?” Jackson shrugs as if it was the most obvious choice in the world. “And it just sort of snow-balled from there.”

“Did you finish out your degree?” Derek wonders.

Jackson nods. “Yeah, I got a communications degree. No idea what I’m going to do with it though.” He rolls his eyes and Derek chuckles. “So until I figure it out, I model. You know, you could be a model too. Your jawline alone…” Jackson trails off, taking in Derek’s countenance.

The blush that had gone away once Derek and Jackson started talking begins to slowly creep up Derek’s face again. Derek’s not stupid; he knows he’s a good-looking guy, even if he doesn’t put much stock in it. But it’s something entirely different to be told how attractive he is by another man whose livelihood is being attractive.

“Oh, I bet you say that to all the boys,” Derek blusters, waving Jackson off.

“Only the ones I hope I have a chance with,” Jackson replies, a small, hopeful smile blossoming on his face. At this point, the blush on Derek’s own face feels so warm he’s positive his face is going to burn right off.

“What do you model for?” Derek blurts out, eager to change the subject from himself. “Anything I might have seen?”

Jackson shrugs. “Local designers, mostly. Usually clothes, sometimes accessories.” He stops, thinks, then exclaims, “Oh, I was in Vogue once!”

“Oh wow,” Derek intones. “Does the devil really wear Prada?” he asks, proud of himself for his pun.

“No idea,” Jackson grins. “The devil did not show herself during my shoot.”

“Oh well. It still must have been exciting shooting for Vogue.” The magazine’s name feels foreign in Derek’s mouth. Fashion is definitely not his oeuvre, as Laura and now Erica would be quick to point out.

“I guess,” Jackson says. “Honestly, though, modeling is really boring. It’s just a bunch of “wear this, wear that, do you mind being in your underwear, stand here, look pretty, smolder—“

“Smolder?” Derek interrupts, incredulously. Jackson laughs and sits up straight. He rolls his head around on his neck, loosening up, then looks down. After a couple of seconds, he raises his head toward Derek, and the look on his face has completely changed. Although he’s by no means squinting or otherwise contorting his face, there’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Jackson holds the look for a few seconds before he breaks and starts laughing. Derek joins him.

“Is that what Tyra calls smizing?” he asks Jackson. Jackson laughs harder and Derek smiles, feeling even prouder of himself.

“See? It’s ridiculous!” Jackson wipes at tears in his eyes and catches his breath. “But it’s decent money,” he reasons, “and you learn about a lot of different facets of the industry, like advertising, marketing, photography, fashion…even a lot about physical fitness, so you can look your best and be in your best shape.” He indicates toward Derek. “Which you clearly have no problem with.”

Derek fights with every fiber of his being to keep from blushing again and instead lifts his hands in a mock defensive gesture. “I just like how exercising makes me feel. I don’t pay much attention to how it makes me look.” He drops his hands, one in his lap, one along the back edge of the couch.

“Trust me, I’m paying attention.” Jackson half-smiles, the smolder returning to his eyes, and he lays his arm along the back of the couch as well. Derek feels his pulse quicken as Jackson’s fingertips brush against his. It’s been awhile since Derek had intimate contact with anyone, and Jackson’s fingers feel warm and smooth. Against his better judgment, Derek lifts his fingers, and they intertwine with Jackson’s, lingering briefly, before Derek pulls away and folds his hands in his lap.

Jackson leaves his arm comfortably along the back of the couch. “Anyway, who knows?” he says, continuing the previous conversation. Maybe I’ll become a photographer once I stop modeling.”

“Those who no longer do, teach, right?”

“Something like that,” Jackson murmurs. He locks eyes with Derek and the two share a look that Derek could only describe as being eye-fucked. He does his best to control his breathing and keep himself from launching across the couch to see what Jackson’s lips would feel like against his own.

“So Derek,” Jackson begins, and Allison takes that moment to interrupt the conversation.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Allison chirps, the tone in her voice suggesting that she has been watching the entire exchange and knows full well what she just walked in on.

“Nothing we can’t continue later,” Jackson says, rising to his feet. He casts an optimistic look toward Derek. “I hope.”

Derek instantly blushes while Allison laughs gaily. “Come on, you honey-tongued devil,” says, chuckling. “I need to take you back to the patio and bring Derek one last guy.” Allison playfully pushes Jackson out of the grotto. Once they’re out of sight, Derek lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Erica walks into view, a knowing grin on her face and an eyebrow cocked toward the heavens. “Can I get you anything, big guy? A drink? A snack? A cold shower?” Derek glares at her, and she just laughs.

“Very funny,” he mutters. He stretches, wipes his hands on his jeans, and rubs at his face, trying to loosen some of the tension that built up in his body during his one-on-one with Jackson. He was either going to need to hit the gym before bed, or have a very happy time in the shower.

“There’s just one guy left, right?” Derek asks, even though Allison just told him that. 

Erica nods. “Yep. Allison should be bringing him back in a bit. After that—“

“Bedtime?” Derek wonders hopefully.

“You wish,” Erica answers. “After that, it’s first elimination.”

“What?!”

Derek’s astonishment is met with silence. He racks his brain, trying to remember when he was told he was going to have to cut guys on the first evening.

“…Finstock didn’t tell you, did he?” Erica says gently. Derek shakes his head no. “Goddammit,” Erica murmurs.

Allison takes that moment to call out. “Incoming!” Erica scrambles back behind the cameras as Allison strolls into the grotto with a guy in tow who Derek knows has to be at least 22, because that is the youngest age the show would consider. However, he looks to all the world like he’s still a teenager. Derek recognizes him as the guy who couldn’t nail his arrival take. A smattering of moles dot his face, and his eyes are a rich dark brown. He’s not _not_ cute, but Derek is still reeling from the news of tonight’s elimination to really notice.

“Derek, this young man goes by the name Stiles.” Stiles waves awkwardly and Derek nods in response. “See if you can find out his real name for me.” Allison giggles, and turns to leave the two to meet.

“Hello Stiles,” Derek greets, extending his hand. Stiles shakes Derek’s hand and the first thing Derek notices is how big Stiles’ hands are. No, not big. Long. His fingers are long, longer than Derek’s, and the handshake is firm, surprisingly confident for a boy named Stiles.

“Hi Derek,” Stiles replies. Derek gestures for the two of them to sit, and they do. Almost immediately, Stiles starts drumming his fingers on his thighs.

“Nervous?” Derek asks. Stiles’ eyebrows raise questioningly and Derek nods to his fingers. Stiles laughs.

“Just something I do out of habit, I guess,” he replies, and shoves his hands under his thighs to keep them from moving. “There we go. Better?”

Derek nods, not sure if Stiles is serious or joking.

Stiles picks up on Derek’s uncertainty right away. “Sorry,” he says. “Sometimes my jokes are a total hit, but mostly they’re just really friggin’ awkward.” He pulls his hands out from under his legs and tries to relax.

“So Derek,” Stiles continues. “How are you doing today?”

An awkward silence follows as Derek sits there, flummoxed. Stiles face seems earnest, his eyes sincere.

“You okay?” Stiles asks after the silence has gone on a few seconds too long. Derek blinks a few times, rapidly, then shakes his head a little as if trying to clear the cobwebs.

“Sorry, yeah,” Derek answers. “It’s been a long day. Kinda zoned out for a bit.”

Stiles scoffs. “Well, that sounds great for me.” He puffs his chest out, looking put out. Derek sputters, opening and closing his mouth like a guppy, grasping for a reply. After a couple of seconds, the look in Stiles’ eyes shifts from accusatory to playful and he bursts out laughing.

“Dude, I’m just kidding!” Stiles exclaims, once he catches his breath. Derek breathes a sigh of relief, then lets out a small chuckle.

“Sorry,” Derek says. “I’m just a little tired.”

“You mean you’re not used to meeting eleven attractive guys who are trying to woo you to win your hand in marriage, as well as a tidy monetary award?” Stiles offers.

“Twelve,” Derek replies. He gestures to Stiles.

“Ah, yes,” Stiles muses. “But I’m not attractive.” Derek’s eyebrow hikes skyward. “I’m adorable.” A cheeky grin spreads across Stiles’ face, partnered by a mottled blush, as though Stiles himself can’t believe he just said that.

Derek laughs. “Okay, okay, you’re adorable.” There’s another pause, a comfortable silence this time, before Stiles speaks up.

“You never answered me. How are you doing today?”

Derek blinks a couple of times, still processing that question. Until now, Derek is the only one who’s asked that in the one-on-one conversations, and that was only when the competitors weren’t talking about themselves the entire time. He wasn’t expecting to hear anyone ask the question of himself.

“Kind of tired, to be honest,” Derek finally admits. Stiles offers up an easy grin.

“I’d imagine sitting here for an hour and a half and having to get to know twelve people would take it out of you a bit.” Stiles smirks innocently and in spite of himself, Derek chuckles.

“I never realized how exhausting it is just listening to people talk,” Derek admits.

“Really?” Stiles asks. Derek nods. “Because you seem like the strong, silent type.”

“What do you mean?” Derek wonders.

“Y’know, like you’re used to just sitting around and listening to people talk,” Stiles explains. He narrows his eyes at Derek as though he’s analyzing him. A couple of seconds pass before Derek finally relents.

“I suppose that’s true,” he says.

Stiles leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and props his face on his hands. “So, tall, dark, and brooding, tell me about yourself.”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do for me?” Derek huffs with amusement.

“Yeah, but it’s, like…mutual disclosure,” Stiles says, flailing his hands by way of explanation. “The ‘getting to know you’ thing goes both ways. “You’re not just getting to know us,” Stiles points from Derek to himself, “we’re getting to know you, too.”

“That’s a good point,” Derek murmurs.

“Plus,” Stiles continues, “you’ve just been sitting there, listening to everyone. It’s time you did some work.”

“Oh, you think?” Derek laughs, taken aback but also excited. At least, he thinks he’s excited. It’s been awhile since anybody has flirted with him like this, teasing him with this sense of familiarity. Usually people are either put off by how quiet he is, mistaking it for rudeness or anger, or they just try to flatter him for his looks. Which Derek doesn’t have a problem with—it’s always nice to be complimented—but it’s annoying to be treated nicely only for his looks.

“Yeah, I think,” Stiles counters. So, Derek…?”

“Hale.”

“So, Derek Hale, enquiring minds want to know: what do you do to make money, besides appear as the center of attention on dating shows?”

Derek’s eyes narrow in annoyance. “My sister pushed me into it,” he answers.

“A likely story,” Stiles muses.

“How did you end up on the show?” Derek shoots back.

Stiles leans back on the couch and settles in. “My friend Heather pushed me into it, but we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you.” Derek mock huffs at that. “So, now I know you have a sister and you clearly go to the gym,” Stiles’ eyes travel over Derek’s arms and chest, which fill out his v-neck with no problem. He’d lost the blazer long ago. “What else should I know about you?”

“You really wanna know?” Derek asks, leaning forward, conspiratorially. Stiles nods and leans forward as well, mirroring Derek’s position. “That I really like mutual disclosure,” Derek finishes, winking at Stiles and leaning back into the couch, leaving Stiles floundering in his wake.

“Okay, okay,” Stiles says, once he’s gathered himself. “My name is Stiles Stilinski, I’m 22, and I just graduated college with a bachelor’s degree in psychology.”

“Stiles Stilinski?” Derek queries.

“I didn’t stutter,” Stiles says with a smirk.

“Your first name is Stiles and your last name is Stilinski,” Derek replies slowly, as though he’s looking for an explanation that’s just out of sight.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “My last name is Stilinski and my first name is something I don’t share with anybody, because my parents had a twisted sense of humor, and I don’t want you to sprain anything trying to pronounce it.” He takes a breath and goes on, “Now: what do you do?”

Derek holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I work in wildlife rehabilitation.”

“What’s that?” Stiles asks, shifting in his seat and leaning forward with interest.

“I work at a forest preserve that takes in injured animals, helps them get better, and works with them to reacclimatize them to living in the wild,” Derek explains.

“That’s awesome!” Stiles exclaims. “What kind of animals do you work with?”

“A lot of birds with broken wings, actually.” Derek sees Stiles visibly deflates a bit, as though taking care of injured bald eagles didn’t sound as exciting as it seemed. “Deer, occasionally,” Derek continues. Stiles just blinks, his own deep brown eyes reminding Derek of deer he’d taken care of. “Coyotes every now and then. Once we had a wolf that had its leg caught in an animal trap.”

“Really?” Stiles asks, perking up. “That’s cool.” Derek raises an eyebrow. “I mean, not cool, like, it’s not cool that wolf had its leg stuck in a trap,” Stiles stammers. “But, like, cool that you got to take care of a wolf and like…” Stiles trails off when he sees Derek trying to suppress a teasing smile.

“You jerk,” Stiles accuses, trying not to let his own smile sneak onto his face.

“Couldn’t help it,” Derek replies, flashing a grin. “Too easy.”

“Anyway,” Stiles continues, playfully narrowing his eyes at Derek. “How did you get involved with taking care of poor, wounded animals?”

Derek shakes his head. “Nuh-uh, mutual disclosure,” he says. Stiles just sighs, then raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for Derek’s question. “What do you want to do with your psychology degree?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles answers. “Your turn: how did you get involved with animal rehabilitation.”

“Stiles, that’s not an answer,” Derek laughs. “Why did you go into psychology in the first place?”

Stiles shrugs. “Why not?” he asks by way of reply, then answers his own question. “Everyone’s got a brain.”

“That can’t be the only reason. Come on,” Derek insists, nudging Stiles’ foot with his own. “What do you want to do with your psychology degree?”

“Ugh, fine,” Stiles mutters, somewhat obstinately. He pauses for a moment, seeming to hold his breath. “I want to work with kids,” he finally admits. “Get my master’s degree in child psychology, maybe, or counseling psychology, and work with kids with learning disabilities, or maybe even just open up a daycare for trouble kids. Y’know?” He runs his slender fingers through his hair, and Derek is surprised to find himself wondering what it would feel like to run to have Stiles’ fingers run through his own hair.

“Like the kids that can’t get into other daycare facilities because no one takes the time to get to know them, or how to work with them” Stiles goes on, beginning to sound somewhat impassioned. “Sort of like rehabilitating injured animals.” Stiles gestures to Derek by way of acknowledgment, then furrows his brow. “Only, y’know, the kids aren’t animals and they’re not injured. They’re just…different.”

Stiles finishes his explanation, looking somewhat embarrassed to have blurted all of that out, a blush beginning to mottle his face. All Derek can do is stare at him and feel…proud, somehow, and that in and of itself feels weird because Derek has no right to feel proud about someone he just met. Despite Stiles’ mulishness, there’s something about this man who looks embarrassed to admit that he wants to work with kids. Not just kids, but kids that other people have given up on.

“So, now,” Stiles says, pulling Derek out of his reverie. “How did you get involved with animal rehabilitation?” Before Derek can even open his mouth to begin to answer, Allison strolls into the grotto.

“Okay, Stiles, that’s your time. Did you find out what his real name is, yet?” She winks at Derek, who smiles and shakes his head. “Oh, that’s too bad. Maybe you’ll just have to keep him around a little while longer to find out.” Allison waggles her eyebrows at Stiles, who stands and shrugs his shoulders sheepishly.

“I doubt it, Allison,” Stiles explains. “That’s a closely guarded family secret, much like the recipe for Busch’s Baked Beans.”

Allison giggles and loops her arm through Stiles. “We’ll see about that,” she teases, and leads Stiles out of the grotto. “See you in a bit, Derek!” she calls out as they walk away.

“That? Was adorable.” Erica bounds out from behind the camera and collapses on the couch next to Derek. “Kali, wasn’t that adorable?”

“It was adorable,” Kali’s disembodied voice calls out from behind the camera.

“So, do you know who you’re going to eliminate?” Erica pokes at Derek’s side and he bats her hand away.

“I completely forgot about that,” Derek mutters as Lydia and Finstock walk into the grotto.

“Isn’t that my question to ask, Reyes?” Finstock widens his buggy eyes at the blonde woman sprawled out on the couch. Erica quickly gets to her feet.

“Sorry,” she apologizes. “I was just—“

“You were just impeding the process,” Finstock barks. Erica holds her breath, prepared for the barrage of Finstock’s rant.

“Actually,” Derek says, also getting to his feet. He wasn’t the biggest fan of Finstock to begin with, and he’s definitely not going to sit idly by while Finstock berates someone Derek already considers a friend. “Erica has been helping me since I got here. She put together a Look Book for me so I could get to know the contestants a bit before I got to know them—“

“Does that sentence make sense?” Finstock says over Derek.

“—she helped me put this outfit together, which I think looks pretty good—“

“Y’know, it actually does, if I were gay—“

“For the love of God, don’t finish that sentence,” Derek instructs. “Erica is also the one who told me there was an elimination tonight, which you think I would have found out from the show’s producer. But I’m just the guy doing the eliminating, so why do I need to know about eliminations?”

Awkwardness covers the grotto. Finstock stammers some vowel sounds while Lydia stares at him with her arms, tapping her foot on the stone floor. Finally, Lydia clears her throat and Finstock falls silent. Lydia closes her eyes, inhales, then lets out a long steady breath before turning to Derek with a big smile.

“You know, Derek, I was actually thinking about this earlier. It might be interesting to have someone on camera with you to assist you with eliminations. Someone with whom you can talk out your decisions. A sounding board, basically. Someone,” she motions toward Erica, “who has eyes everywhere and already watches all of your interactions with the contestants. You two already seem to have a good rapport. Erica, how do you feel about appearing on camera?”

Erica opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, speechless. “What?”

“Obviously, you’ll be compensated for it. You’ll still receive credit for your internship for your work as a PA, but we have an incidental fund that should handsomely cover your time on camera. I imagine it would help cover your student loans. Thoughts?” Lydia looks at Erica expectantly, like she knows full well Erica will say yes.

“…Sure?” Erica says hesitantly.

“Great,” Lydia replies, barely before Erica has the chance to agree. “Go see makeup, just to touch up a little bit. Hair down, please, but I like the casual look you have going. Your outfit is simple, but it works.” She gestures to the dark jeans and black scoop-neck t-shirt Erica is wearing. Lydia then frowns, gesturing toward Erica’s sneakers. “We’ll just make sure to film you from the knees up. Go. Makeup. You have 5 minutes.” Erica nods before scurrying off. Lydia turns to Derek.

“So. Derek. Do you know who you’re going to eliminate?” she asks. Finstock looks like he’s about to complain that Lydia is asking his question, but the redhead silences him, holding up an admonishing index finger without even looking at him.

“I think so. At least, I will after I talk about it with Erica,” Derek says pointedly in Finstock’s direction. Finstock practically turns purple.

“Great.” Lydia smiles tightly. “I apologize that my colleague did not tell you there was an elimination tonight. From now on, I will make sure to convey all important information to you, as well as make sure someone provides you with daily and weekly production schedules so that you aren’t caught off guard again. In the meantime, there’s a small room of the foyer where we’ll film your discussion with Erica. You can head there now.”

“Thank you.”

Lydia turns toward Finstock on a stilettoed heel. She says nothing, just stares at him, until he breaks.

“I know. I know, I know, I know.” He flails his hands wildly as the two producers walk away. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I don’t know what _I_ was thinking,” is the last thing Derek hears Lydia say before he’s left alone on the grotto.

He meets Erica in the foyer. Her hair, which had been pulled up in a messy bun, falls in relaxed waves down her shoulders. Her lips look a little glossier and her brown eyes seem a little bigger. Duke stands nearby, waiting to direct the scene.

“I feel like an idiot,” she tosses off.

Derek grins. “You look great.” Erica just rolls her eyes.

“Okay you two,” Duke speaks up. “Just head into the room. I’ll call action, you’ll talk, we’ll cut. It should be pretty simple. Talk as much as you want about the contestants, but try not to use names. We can edit it in post if you do, but it’s easier this way.”

“Okay,” Derek says a little uncertainly. He knows eliminating contestants is a part of the game, but he didn’t realized how stressed it would make him feel.

“Come on,” Erica says, and leads him into a room under the spiral staircase. It’s small, but not cramped. Twelve pictures hang on the wall, featuring each of the contestants. Derek recognizes them as the same pictures from the Look Book.

“So who were you thinking?” Erica asks. Derek furrows his brow, puzzled.

“Don’t we have to wait for the cameras?” he wonders. Erica shakes her head, then points to all four corners of the room.

“Action!” they hear Duke shout from the foyer.

There’s an awkward silence for a few seconds. Neither Derek nor Erica really know where to begin. Finally, Erica speaks.

“So who were you thinking?” she repeats.

Derek looks the wall of pictures, exhales, then points at some of them. “I like these two. And this guy was pretty interesting.” He points to another picture. “This guy and I had a really good talk, and I wish I’d gotten to know this guy some more, so I guess I’ll keep him around a little while longer.” Erica nods at each of Derek’s assessments. When he’s finished, there are still three guys unaccounted for.

“Well, you have to eliminate two guys,” Erica coaches. “What did you think of him?”

Derek purses his lips in thought. “I think…he can be eliminated. I didn’t really connect with him. He seemed a little…”

“Prissy. The word you’re looking for is prissy,” Erica interjects.

Derek laughs. “And this guy.” He gestures to another picture.

“I get it. No explanation needed.” Erica turns to Derek, her hands on her hips. “Sounds like you’ve made your decisions. You ready to do this?”

Derek frowns. “As I’ll ever be,” he mutters.

A short while later, Derek finds himself standing in the foyer facing all twelve contestants, who are arranged on a short set of risers so they can all be seen by the camera. Allison stands to his left, and there are at least three cameras filming the action.

“Well, Derek, do you have anything to say?”

“I do,” Derek replies. He takes in the men standing in front of him, staring back at him expectantly. “I just wanted to say first that I truly enjoyed meeting all of you, and that I wish I didn’t have to eliminate anybody. That being said, I’ve made my decision.”

“So who’s the first person you’re going to ask to stay?” Allison asks him.

“The first person I would like to ask to stay…” Derek pauses five seconds for effect, the way Duke instructed him. “…is Jackson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jackson is a bitch to write. A lot of fun, but it's hard to be a smarmy asshole.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after the first elimination, the contestants are taken to the beach for their first competition.

“How do you think it went?”

“Do you think he’ll ask you to stay?”

“Did he say anything about me?”

Scott and Parrish are all over Stiles after his return from meeting Derek. For some reason, Jackson is there, too. Stiles offers Jackson a cursory smile as Scott and Parrish lead him somewhere a little more private, or at least as private as they could be while being followed by a cameraman. Jackson rolls his eyes and heads back over to Danny and Ethan.

“It went…” Stiles muses, before giving up on a description. “It went.

“Good went or bad went?” Parrish asks.

“I tried to be as obnoxious as possible,” Stiles confesses. “I tried to act like I wasn’t interested but I also tried leching on him. Tried not to let him know too much about myself so he could pull the whole _I feel like I don’t know who the real Stiles is_ when it comes to eliminations--”

“Which are in an hour, dude,” Scott interrupts.

Stiles’ eyes widen. “Sweet. Maybe I’ll get to go home even earlier than I thought.”

“No man,” Scott counters. “Didn’t you read the contract? If you get eliminated, you get to stay in a hotel until filming is over. Otherwise, people would know that you were eliminated and it would spoil the show.”

“Even better,” Stiles nods, pumping a fist in the air. “I’d get a nice post baccalaureate vacation.” Parrish, who has been watching Stiles and Scott’s back-and-forth like a tennis match, sputters a bit.

“You mean you want to go home?” Parrish asks. Stiles nods. “Why?”

Stiles sighs. “Because my friend Heather pushed me into it. I’m 99.9% positive I’m not going to find true love on a reality show where I have to compete with eleven other way-more-attractive-than-I-am men for the attention of an _impossibly_ attractive person--who may or may not be the living definition of “a stud”--only to be ultimately rejected and sent home with my tail between my legs. I already live that reality, so why would I want it televised?”

Scott and Parrish fall silent as Stiles finishes his tirade. They share a glance with each other before simultaneously smacking Stiles in the back of the head.

“Ow, what the fuck?!” Stiles cries.

“First of all,” Parrish begins, “you are, like, adorkable spazzy hot--”

“You’re the only adorkable spazzy hot person here,” Scott interjects.

“--so you fit a niche.”

“Second of all, what about us?” Scott asks.

Stiles’ brow furrows into a look of confusion. “What _about_ you?”

“We’re your bros, bro!” Scott exclaims good-naturedly. Parrish nods in agreement. “You leave, you break up the alliance.”

“We have an alliance?”

“We totally have an alliance!” Scott exclaims. Stiles’ entire face crumples into a look of puzzlement.

“How does that even _work_?”

“We can help each other out in challenges,” Parrish explains. “Make sure each other wins instead of other people. That means less face time with Derek, which means he’ll send them home.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Do you want Derek to choose you because he likes you, or because you sent everyone else home?”

“Obviously I want Derek to choose me because he likes me,” Parrish replies. “But he’ll be more likely to like me the more he gets to know me, which means that we have to keep him from getting to know other people.”

“How does that make no sense and all the sense?” Stiles mutters, mostly to himself.

“Look,” Scott sighs. “The point is, if you weren’t here, it would suck. I want you to stay around because you’re fun and I like you.” He pauses, then adds, “As a friend.”

“Yeah, as a friend,” Parrish echoes.

Stiles looks at these two men he just met and feels an unexpected rush of affection for them. He didn’t have a lot of guy friends in college--mostly he just hung out with Heather, but even when they were in a group of friends, it was always women--but he especially didn’t have any gay guy friends. He could never figure out why but until this moment, he didn’t realize how much he wanted it.

“Well, it’s out of my hands for now,” Stiles says. Duke takes that moment to call attention to the patio entrance.

“Okay, everybody!” he shouts, clapping his hands. “Derek is currently consulting with his--what are we calling her?” he asks the producers, standing off to the side.

“Gal pal!” Finstock shouts out.

“I’m not calling her ‘Derek’s gal pal,’” Finstock rebukes.

“Wing man?” Finstock suggests. Lydia glares at him and he winces. “Wing woman?”

Lydia sighs. “Just call her his friend, please.”

Duke nods. “Derek is currently consulting with his friend on whom he plans to send home. In the meantime, let’s head into the foyer where we’ll film the eliminations.”

The group of contestants follow Duke though the house to the foyer, where a small set of risers has been placed for them to stand on. Duke quickly arranges them on the risers, and Stiles finds himself standing on the back corner behind Isaac and next to Parrish. He’s not surprised to see that Jackson is front and center.

“Derek is ready,” Duke says, “so once he comes out we’ll do a quick light check and then start filming. Allison, do you remember the spiel?”

Allison smiles broadly. “Yes, Duke, I remember how to do my job,” she replies. Duke nods absently, barely paying attention. Allison turns, unintentionally makes eye contact with Stiles, and rolls her eyes. Stiles bites his lip to keep from laughing out loud as he suddenly feels an unspoken closeness to Allison.

A small door off the foyer opens and Erica stops out, followed by Derek. A silence falls over the room, and a blush creeps up Derek’s face.

“Wow, I’m not used to making an entrance,” he jokes uncomfortably. The contestants titter--a few of them laughing a little louder than the quip really calls for--as Duke points Derek to his mark and adjusts some light levels. Finally satisfied, he ducks behind the camera.

“Allison, are you ready?” he calls out. Allison takes her mark, runs a hand through her hair, and gives Duke the thumbs up. “Okay then. Quiet on the set! And...action!”

Allison’s eyes instantly light up. “Good evening, everyone,” she begins. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your first night here at the _Boy Meets Boy_ house. I’m sure Derek has loved having you here.” Next to Allison, Derek’s eyes widen imperceptibly before he remembers himself and nods in agreement.

“Now, each of you got the chance to meet Derek one-on-one this evening. They say that it only takes seven seconds to make a great first impression,” Allison continues, “but no matter how great your first impression may have been, we still have to send two of you home this evening. Once Derek has announced who he’d like to have stay in the house, the two men he didn’t choose will need to go back to The Barracks, pack their bags, and head home.”

There are a few murmurs of disappointment among the group of contestants, causing Allison to laugh sympathetically. “Oh, I know guys. I don’t want to send any of you home either, but them’s the rules.” She shrugs adorably and a few of the contestants chuckle. Allison turns to Derek.

“Well, Derek, do you have anything to say?”

“I do.” Derek clears his throat, and his eyes scan the contestants. His gaze briefly falls on Stiles, and Stiles is surprised to find himself trying to read Derek’s look for any hint of his decision. “I just wanted to say first that I truly enjoyed meeting all of you, and that I wish I didn’t have to eliminate anybody.” Derek continues. “That being said, I’ve made my decision.”

“So who’s the first person you’re going to ask to stay?” Allison asks.

“The first person I would like to ask to stay...” Derek begins, and then pauses for an excruciatingly long period of time. Stiles actually finds himself shifting forward, all of his weight resting on the balls of his feet, as the suspense hangs palpably in the air. He’s pretty sure if Derek doesn’t say a name soon, he’s going to die.

“...is Jackson,” Derek finishes, and Stiles whooshes out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Jackson’s smile is obnoxiously radiant as he steps toward Derek.

“Thank you so much, Derek,” he says. Derek reaches out to shake Jackson’s hand. Jackson takes it and pulls Derek into a hug. “I can’t wait to get to know you more.” Jackson pulls away and steps off to the side where Duke instructed the chosen to stand. Derek turns back to the rest of the contestants, blushing deeply.

“The next person I’d like to ask to stay...” Derek says, and pauses again. This time, the wait doesn’t seem nearly as long now that the tension has been broken. “...is Stiles.”

Stiles doesn’t move. For the first time in his life, he understands what it means to feel like a deer in the headlights: if he doesn’t move, nobody will see him there. And if nobody sees him, they won’t realize how shocked even he is that Derek chose him.

“Seriously?” he squeaks.

Derek laughs. “Seriously,” he affirms, smiling.

Stiles makes his way down the risers and crosses to Derek. “But, like...why?”

“Out of all the other contestants,” Derek says, sweeping his arm toward the other men, “you were the only one who asked me how I was doing. You were the only one who took an interest in who I am as a person. I think that speaks a lot to your character, and I’d like to get to know you more. Will you stay?”

All Stiles can do is nod dumbly. Derek’s smile grows wider and he grabs Stiles hand in both of his.

“Good,” he says. Stiles finally catches his senses and forces himself to act like a real person.

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing Derek’s hand. They let go and Stiles joins Jackson off to the side of the group. For the briefest second, Stiles is pretty sure he sees fire in Jackson’s eyes, but then Jackson smiles at him.

“Congrats,” he whispers as Derek continues his selection. “I hope the other two in our room will get chosen, too. We gotta stay in this together!” Stiles just nods and smiles and watches the action unfold.

“Boyd. Isaac. Scott. Ennis.” One by one, the men Derek calls out join Jackson and Stiles in the chosen circle.

“Ethan and Aiden.” The twins clap each other on the back and walk toward Derek. “Hopefully I’ll be able to tell the two of you apart soon,” Derek jokes.

“In the meantime, no switcheroos,” Allison adds. Ethan laughs while Aiden rolls his eyes. The two of them thank Derek, then head to the chosen circle.

Derek turns back to the contestants remaining on the risers. The only men left are Danny, Parrish, Harris, and Greenburg. Derek pauses as he looks them over.

“Danny,” he finally says. Danny breaks into a smile, the dimple in his cheek deepening, and he steps toward Derek. “You seem incredibly smart, and a lot of what you were talking about with your research went way over my head,” Derek says, and Danny’s face flushes. “But,” Derek continues, “I enjoy learning new things from new people. Hopefully you’ll be able to teach an old dog new tricks, or something like that.” Derek rolls his eyes at his own inanity, and Danny laughs. They shake hands, and Derek turns back to the risers.

“Three guys left and only one open spot,” Allison points out. Derek smiles grimly, then addresses the remaining three guys.

“This is a really hard decision to make,” Derek says. “I don’t like having to choose who I want to send home, like I’m saying you’re not good enough to be here. But when it comes down to it, I have to choose not just someone I want to get to know more, but someone I could consider proposing to, should they make it that far. So, the last person I’m going to ask to stay is...Parrish.”

Stiles finds himself breathing a sigh of relief. The alliance thing is pretty much bullshit, he knows. There’s not really much they can do to guarantee who Derek is going to choose. But it’s nice to have a group of friends to go through the experience with, so the longer Scott and Parrish stay around, the better.

Parrish walks up to Derek and flashes him a smile that’s both megawatt and sincere at the same time. “Thank you so much,” he says, shaking Derek’s hand.

“I didn’t really get to know you all that well,” Derek says. “But I liked what I did get to hear, and you seem like a genuinely nice guy. I like to surround myself with genuinely nice people.”

“I genuinely appreciate it,” Parrish says with a wink, and Derek laughs. Parrish walks over to the chosen circle and takes a spot next to Stiles. Stiles grabs his hand and gives it a quick squeeze. Parrish squeezes back, and the two quickly drop hands.

“Harris, Greenburg...I’m so sorry it didn’t work out,” Derek adds. Harris rolls his eyes while Greenburg stays silent.

“That means that the two of you will need to head back to the Barracks, pack your bags, and go home.” Allison’s voice is clear but sympathetic, and her smile seems sincerely apologetic. Harris huffs and flounces off, muttering under his breath. Greenburg seems to blush in embarrassment at Harris’ reaction, but recovers quickly.

“It was nice meeting you, Derek,” he says, then leaves the foyer as well. A silence falls over the room for a few seconds before Duke’s voice cuts through it.

“And cut!” Everyone in the room seems to take a collective breath. Derek in particular visibly relaxes, looking tired, as though filming the elimination took everything out of him.

Lydia strides into the room with Finstock in tow. “Thank you, everyone. Finstock and I were able to watch the elimination from our control room and it doesn’t look like we’ll need to refilm anything. Duke, why don’t you take your camera crew and go discuss tomorrow’s plan. Allison, we can talk about tomorrow over a glass of wine later.”

“Thank God,” Allison murmurs. Lydia glances at her, a wry smile on her face, and Allison quietly ducks out.

“What about me?” Finstock asks, and Lydia’s smile is gone as quickly as it came.

“Go with Duke,” Lydia sighs, as though she already regrets the decision. “Try not to get in the way.” Finstock opens his mouth to reply, but Lydia’s finger flies up to his face, silently stopping him before he starts. He follows Duke and his crew out of the room. Lydia closes her eyes and takes a deep, slow breath, before re-opening them and smiling brightly.

“Hello men,” she says soothingly. A couple of the contestants murmur a hello back, while most just smile. “Your first elimination is over. How do you feel?”

A nervous giggle ripples through the remaining ten contestants, as though all of the nerves and anxiety from the past few hours have been held in a pressure cooker that’s just being allowed to open. Lydia’s wide grin seems conspiratorial, as though she understands how the contestants feel.

“I know,” she admits. “First day jitters are always the worst.”

“I feel great,” Jackson states loudly, looking completely unfazed. Lydia’s eyes narrow.

“Well, you seem to be the only outlier, Whittemore,” she replies tersely, and Jackson has the decency to look abashed. In an instant, Lydia is once again all business.

“We’ll be loading the vans at 6 a.m. tomorrow and heading to the beach,” she announces. “We will spend the whole day there, including much of the evening. You’ll need to pack for the beach, for a casual lunch, and for a fancy dinner.”

“How fancy?” Scott asks.

“You won’t need a suit coat, but you should look impeccable,” Lydia answers. “Wardrobe is available if you need anything ironed. When we load the vans at 6 a.m. tomorrow, you’ll need to have all of your clothes with you, plus whatever else you think you’ll need for those occasions. Sunscreen and sunblock will be provided. Let me repeat, we will load the vans at 6 a.m. _sharp_. You will need to meet in the circle driveway at 5:45 a.m. Any questions?”

Stiles is tempted to ask what time they’ll be loading the vans, but in the short amount of time he’s witnessed Lydia in charge, he’s pretty sure he’d be loading the van in pieces, so he stays silent. Nobody else offers up any questions.

“Wonderful. Head back to the Barracks and have a good evening.” With that, Lydia strides out of the room.

A weird silence lingers in the foyer as the remaining ten contestants continue to stand there, silently processing everything that had happened in the previous ten minutes. Quietly, they head outside toward the Barracks, slowly shuffling into their cliques. Everyone remains silent, as though the rush of the day has finally caught up to them. Stiles can barely believe that he left for this place just a little over twelve hours ago.

“I’m going to bed,” he states as soon as he enters the Barracks. Scott nods in approval, while Parrish frowns.

“You okay, dude?” Stiles asks.

Parrish blinks, then nods quickly. “Yeah, yeah. I’m just not ready to sleep yet. Probably a good idea, though, since we have to be up so early.” He glances around at all the other contestants, then shouts, “Dibs on first shower!”

One after another, everyone else calls their dibs. Stiles looks around, bewildered.

“Why would you even need to shower?” he wonders. “We’re going to the beach. It’ll be sandy and windy and we’ll get wet and also we’re leaving at six in the morning. Why get up any earlier than you have to just to take an unnecessary shower?”

Scott laughs, and Parrish fondly shakes his head. “You never know, man. You never know.”

“Well,” Stiles says, “enjoy your asscrack-of-dawn shower. I’ll take an extra hour and a half of sleep, anyway. It’s good for the skin, y’know?” He winks at Parrish, claps Scott on the shoulder, and heads off to his room.

***

Stiles spends the better part of the morning regretting not taking that shower. Despite the fact that it’s 6 in the morning, the rest of the guys look…well, at the very least, put together. Everyone is wearing some form of beach gear: board shorts, swim trunks, tank tops, t-shirts, sandals, flip-flops. Stiles had opted for orange and brown plaid board shorts and a gray t-shirt that’s a bit too loose, and now he feels surprisingly underdressed for some unknown beach adventure. He starts to feel a little panicked, before he reminds himself that his goal is not to find true love, but just to get a decent vacation before he has to figure out what to do with his life.

Some of the guys look downright amazing, and Stiles would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit to giving a couple of the other contestants a second glance. Ennis’ arms in that tank top alone…

When they arrive at the beach, there’s still a morning chill in the air. They don’t start filming right away. While the camera crews set up, the contestants sit down to breakfast, courtesy of craft services. Most everyone sticks to something light—some fruit, a couple of pieces of whole-wheat toast, coffee—but Stiles goes whole hog. If there’s one lesson that stuck in college, it’s that you never turn down free food. As he loads his plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and a blueberry muffin, he sees Jackson looking at him, a look of disgust sneered across his face.

“Are you really going to eat all of that?” Jackson asks.

Stiles looks down at his plate, and frowns. “You’re right,” he says. He removes one piece of bacon from his plate, then grins up at Jackson. “Waste not, want not!” He shoves an apple into his mouth and takes a seat at a table with Scott and Parrish, leaving Jackson standing at the buffet line looking bewildered.

An hour and a half later, Duke is ready to start filming. He gathers the contestants on the beach, arranging them in some configuration Stiles figures will look best on camera.

“Okay, everyone,” Duke says loudly over the occasional crash of the surf. “Ideally, I’d like to get this opening in one take. Do you think you can manage that?” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he continues. “Wonderful. We won’t have too many formal shots like this one today. Most everything will be candid shooting during your activities. Just like yesterday, try to forget that the cameras are there. Got it?” This time, Duke waits expectantly for an answer and is met with a chorus of general agreement.

“Good. Now let’s get Allison and our bachelor out here.” A PA, who Stiles assumes is Jeff, speaks into his walkie talkie. A minute or so later, Allison and Derek stroll into view. Allison is carrying a small sack cinched shut with a drawstring. Derek, dressed in a white tank top and a pair of maroon swim trunks that accent his tan thighs, holds an umbrella for Allison, shielding her from the sun. Allison’s lilac cotton maxi-dress billows around her in the breeze, and she laughs as Derek murmurs something to her.

“Get that shot, get that shot,” Duke mutters to a camera man, who swings around and begins filming Allison and Derek as they walk toward the group. As Allison laughs again, Derek grins, a mega-watt smile that Stiles has to admit only makes him more attractive. Allison notices that Duke has already begun filming, and smiles at the contestants.

“Hello, everyone!” she says as she finds her mark. Duke offers her a quick thumbs up. “Can you believe Derek offered to hold my umbrella for me? I didn’t even have to ask. What a gentleman!” Derek smiles and rolls his eyes as Allison takes the umbrella from him, collapses it, and sticks it in the sand.

“As you can see,” Allison continues, spreading her arms presentationally, “we have amazing weather for our day at the beach! The sun is shining, the sand is nice and warm, and the breeze off the ocean smells wonderful. But, I bet you’re wondering what we’re doing here today. Well, we asked Derek what some of his favorite memories are of the beach, and he told us…well, Derek, why don’t you tell them what you told us?”

Derek’s cheeks redden a bit. “My family and I used to come to the beach when my sisters and I were kids. We liked to swim, fly kites, and my sisters would always bury me in the sand.”

“Don’t worry, none of you are getting buried today,” Allison interjects playfully. The contestants politely titter.

Derek smiles. “But our favorite thing to do was build sandcastles. We would spend hours on them, making them as elaborate as possible, and decorating them with items we found on the beach. My father, who was an architect, would take pictures of them, and after he printed them out, would frame the pictures and hang them on the wall.” He turns back to Allison, indicating that he’s finished.

“So today, we’ll be holding a sandcastle building contest!” she exclaims. The contestants are silent, except for Scott who cheers enthusiastically.

“CUT!” Duke’s voice bellows across the beach. Scott freezes where he stands next to Stiles, and Stiles can feel a blush mottling his face on behalf of his friend. Duke strides over to the contestants and stands in front of Scott. “What’s your name?”

“Scott?” he answers timidly.

Duke smiles at him. “Scott, I want to thank you for being the only person who seems excited to be here.”

Scott’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as Duke takes a step back and surveys the contestants.

“All of you,” he proclaims. “What did I say about wanting to do this in one shot?” Once again, he doesn’t wait for an answer. “That I only wanted to do it _in one shot_. Now, we’re going to do this again, and when Allison announces the contest, I want you all to scream and cheer like you’re Kermit the bloody Frog!” Duke storms back over to his position on the sidelines.

“Action!” he shouts.

“So today,” Allison repeats with the exact same cadence as before, “we’ll be holding a sandcastle building contest!”

This time, the contestants respond enthusiastically. Stiles pumps a fist in the air and instantly feels foolish, but notices a couple of the others are doing the same thing.  
Once the cheers die down, Allison continues. “A little ways down the beach, we’ve set up five stations where you’ll be building your sandcastles. We’ve provided some resources for you, like buckets, two trowels, and some shaping tools. Otherwise, you have the entire beach at your disposal.” She looks expectantly at Derek.

“You’ll notice Allison said that there are five stations,” he says. “That’s because you’ll be working in two-person teams, chosen at random. This gives me the chance to see how you get along with other people. You can tell a lot about a person by seeing how well he gets along with someone else. While you’re working on your sandcastles, I’ll be walking around and observing you with my friend, Erica. When the contest is over, we’ll pick the winning team.

“Now, we keep saying contest,” Allison says, “so obviously there must be some sort of prize. And I think we have a great one. The team with the best sandcastle…” Allison pauses for a few seconds, allowing for suspense to build. “…will win a private dinner with Derek! You’ll wine and dine at the fabulous seaside restaurant, Garou de la Mer, enjoying a meal cooked specially for you by the head chef, Marin Morell. I hear she does things with fresh seafood that should be illegal!”

The contestants applaud and cheer, excited at the prospect of getting more exclusive face time with Derek. As he claps, Stiles thinks of ways that he can sabotage his own sandcastle without ruining the chances of whomever he’s paired with.

Allison holds up the small sack she’s been carrying. “In this bag, I have ten nametags, one for each of you. Derek, will you do the honors?”

“My pleasure.” Derek reaches into the bag, fishes around a bit, and pulls out a nametag. “Boyd! And…” he reaches back in and pulls out another tag. “Aiden!” Aiden strides cockily over to Boyd and offers up a high five, which Boyd half-heartedly meets.

“Next up is Parrish…and Isaac!” Parrish and Isaac, who are already standing next to each other, shake hands and bro-hug.

“Jackson…”

“Whoo!” Jackson shouts. Allison and a few of the contestant laugh at his exuberance as Derek again reaches into the bag.

“…and Stiles!”

Stiles glances at Jackson and notices the smile on his face drop slightly. A beat passes before Stiles finally reacts.

“Whoooo!” he exclaims, just a little louder than Jackson did seconds ago. He bounds over to Jackson and slings an arm around his shoulder. “Team Stackson, let’s do this!”

There’s more laughter, this time from Derek as well, and it takes a second for Jackson to react. He wraps his arm around Stiles’ waist and pumps his fist in the air.

“Alright, Team Stackson!” He claps his free hand over Stiles’ stomach a few times, a little harder than Stiles cares for, considering the breakfast he just ate.

Derek announces the final two teams—Scott and Ennis, Danny and Ethan—and everyone walks down to the section of the beach where the production team spent the morning setting up for the contest. Erica is waiting for them there, dressed casually in a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a bright blue tank top, her hair in a loose braid.

Each team finds their way to a station and wait for Allison to give the final instructions.

“You’ll have two hours to build the best sandcastle you can. And in case you forgot why you’re here, the winning team wins dinner with Derek! Now, are you ready?”

Everyone cheers with anticipation.

“Then on your mark…get set…go!”

The contestants spring to action. Stiles and Jackson both grab buckets and begin forming a large pile of sand. Jackson edges his way close to Stiles, so they’re situated right next to each other as they scoop and toss sand.

“Don’t fuck this up for me,” he hisses through a wan smile, which Stiles assume is there in case anyone is watching them. He gives Jackson a questioning look.

“I heard what you said last night, about not wanting to be here,” Jackson scoffs. “Which is fine, because Derek would never pick you, anyway.”

“Excuse me?” Stiles asks, incredulously.

Jackson laughs. “Look at you. Now look at the rest of us.” He gestures surreptitiously to the other contestants. Everyone else stripped off their shirts before they started working, and Stiles has never seen so many biceps and triceps in his life. Ennis is basically one giant pectoral muscle, Parrish could grate parmesan cheese on his abs, and even Scott sports a worked out body, as well as an arm band tattoo on his left bicep.

Stiles looks back at Jackson, who grins as he takes off his own shirt, revealing a body that’s lean, toned, and tanned. Stiles has never been terribly body conscious, but he knows that in comparison, his own body would be lanky and gangly. Thanks to what some would call a hyperactive metabolism, and the bike he used to ride to get to classes, his stomach is flat and the rest of his body is solid. But there’s nothing that even remotely suggests muscle definition. And although he’s never given it much thought before, he feels as though if he did take his shirt off now, all anybody would see would be the smattering of moles across his chest and torso, a sharp contrast to his pale skin.

“So fail all you want,” Jackson continues. “But if you bring me down with you, you will pay for it.”

Derek and Erica take that moment to walk up.

“Hey guys, what’s going on?” Derek asks. A quiet moment passes as Jackson shoots an expectant look at Stiles.

“We’re just discussing blueprints,” Stiles finally sputters.

“We both decided that we needed a really solid foundation before anything else,” Jackson explains.

Stiles begins to feel a fire burning low in his belly, suddenly not ready to go down without a fight. He nods. “Exactly. What good are fancy decorations if everything underneath is a big, shallow mess?” He looks at Jackson pointedly. Jackson laughs, but Stiles can see him shooting daggers at Stiles with his eyes. He’s surprised to notice that he hopes Derek can see the daggers as well. He glances up to discover that, while Derek hasn’t noticed anything, Erica is looking at Jackson with one eyebrow cocked quizzically.

Stiles shifts his focus again. “How are you today, Derek?” He’s genuinely interested, but there’s also a small amount of satisfaction he feels knowing Jackson hasn’t bothered asking.

“Yes, Derek, how are you?” Jackson asks quickly. Erica’s eyebrow shoots an inch higher, and the beginning of a smirk begins to play at the corners of her mouth.

“I’m doing well, thank you,” Derek answers. “I haven’t been to the beach in forever. It reminds me of being here with my family.” He smiles, but his smile seems sad. Stiles is surprised to discover that he wants to know _why_ Derek’s smile is sad, and that he’d like to help Derek to be not sad.

“We’ll let you get back to building,” Erica says, noticing the moment.

“Yes,” Derek murmurs. He seems to gather himself, and his smile grows wider, less sad. “Good luck!” Erica loops her arm through Derek’s and leads him away, leaning in to him and talking quietly. The cameras follow after.

Stiles watches them go, his brow knitted in confusion, trying to figure out why he suddenly wants to win dinner with Derek. Ideally without Jackson. There was a look in Derek’s eyes when he talked about his family, one that Stiles felt he understood, and he’d like to talk about it more. He shakes his head, chalks it up to nothing more than caring about another human being.

“Stilinski, get your ass down here and start building, or I swear to God you will be the base of this sandcastle,” Jackson threatens. Stiles looks down at the pile of sand, a renewed vigor running through his veins. He drops to his knees, grabs a bucket, and starts packing it with sand. He looks Jackson in square in the eye, winks, and flashes him a wide smile.

“Now Jackson, don’t fuck this up for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on the Tumblr machine! I'm [BroodingSoul](http://broodingsoul.tumblr.com) there. Yes, the username is stupid. No, I don't plan on changing it.


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